Well, the picture host server came back on line almost immediately after I mentioned that it was out. All the illustrations seem to be present and accounted for. A happier outcome than expected.
The rest of last weekend didn't go quite
as predicted either. There were to be, if you will cast your minds back, "two funerals, a class, and an evening dance if my
plantar fasciitis quiets down." The first funeral was ideal. Played the processional and the recessional for a Catholic Mass and had my own pew in the back to sit in. Got to play the Irish pipes for a change in a big church with a wonderful reverb. The services ran a bit long so I didn't make the class.
But the second funeral was a sort of extremely pious secular non-denominational affair and ran in excess of two and a half hours. The deceased had an abundance of friends (which meant no seat available for the piper) most of whom got up to say a few words. Indeed, a great many words. A self-appointed lay preacher took the occasion to spend half an hour exhorting us to repent of our sins and come to Jesus so that on our passing we could join Brother Al in the celestial homeland. Now, as a rule I am four-square in favour of sin-repentance. But after a certain amount of time the law of unintended consequences begins to kick in and instead of sin-repentance one begins to be inclined toward sin-commission. Something involving violence and grievous bodily harm to long-winded preachers. St Teresa of Jesus advises that all things are passing, God only is changeless and that patience gains all things. One's faith in the sayings of Our Holy Mother Foundress wavered that afternoon.
So even though the feet were feeling a bit battered after two hours plus in uncomfortable shoes on a marble floor, we were feeling the need to be in a jollier gathering, one that didn't involve any dead people. We went to the dance. Great fun. Hence much limping on Sunday. On Monday we made an appointment to see the podiatrist who injected us with stuff that will make us ineligible to play major league baseball, gave us detailed instructions on new shoes to buy, gave us a prescription which according to the accompanying literature will either cure us or kill us in a terrifyingly painful and long-drawn out manner. Hanging, drawing, and quartering have nothing on the side-effects of this stuff. Highly appropriate for Hallowe'en. But so far, so good; still feeling relatively fit. (But I have another ten days worth of pills left, so I may not be out of the woods yet.) Oh, yes, and I got a nifty foot brace thingummy to wear to bed. The Holy Inquisition had one like it, except for the blue plastic. Don't know which part or parts of this treatment is effective, or whether it's all of it together, but our foot is feeling remarkably good. Our three-beat
pas de basque days may not be over yet.
Otherwise, where has the time gone since last week's post? No idea. The days have been devoured by locusts.
Yes, the Angels lost. But we won't go there. Yankees vs Phillies? Ho, hum. I imagine they're excited on the east coast. Can't really be bothered here. I imagine that the Yankees will win. They paid for it; they're entitled.
Note to new readers: We understand your concern but we have no intention of settling on either first person singular or first person plural in any particular piece, or indeed, any particular sentence. We have had a lot of complaints about this but nothing seems to help. We have given up. However, we do still try to keep their, there, and they're straight, not to mention to, too, and two.
