Who Do You Think You Are, Winston Churchill?

Such lassistude in the face of economic chaos! A walk uphill to school and back again with the New York Times under arm. A second and then a third cup of coffee, toast and jam or fruit or cereal or all three, even a chunk of chocolate. A leisurely perusal of the Editorial, Op-Ed, Obituary and Sports sections, not necessarily in that order follows. Well, I don't drink or such on cigars generally, let alone imbibe a tumbler full of single malt in the morning. And I'm productive, if only in my own mind, with no audience to review what I have wrought. There really are not many who find knowing what I might think of merit or any significance at all, aside from my wife who finds my state of mind affects her and therefore what I am thinking and writing have an immediate impact, and my daughter, who has no choice but to weather my many moods.

Which brings me to the point. We had a pleasant walk to Wheeler this morning. She even remarked about how much different, as in better, it was today, than yesterday, when both of us were raging. After a bath and a few hundreds or thousands of redacted words, Winston might have trooped outdoors in his Wellingtons to work on building a pond or some folly on the estate. That option's not available to me living here in town, but it will be, come spring. I hope I may be gainfully employed, but then, maybe I don't? Or quite possibly, I won't be regardless of my sentiment. Somewhere inside, I must be thinking of how I am Winston, to the manor born!