Today is Saturday. Our paper has a couple of big sections—fashion, art, theatre, books—you get the idea, and we both love to sit at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, eating breakfast and reading. But this morning the front path was cushioned in snow and there was not a single footprint to indicate a visit from the paper person. That's pc, because today the paper boy of the past drives a car and, I was convinced, belongs to a union which won't allow delivery when there is more than a certain amount of snow on the ground. In spite of our handsome Christmas tip.
Hardly a post here because I wanted to follow up my last two entries, but it will mark the date of what is hopefully the last snow of the year.