Not every day is a holiday.  Not every day a weekend.  And – contrary to what my late father repeatedly posited – not every day is Christmas. Some days – like today – are just for mucking about. And that is precisely what I have been doing since arising from the lair at the rather tardy and unimpressive hour of 9:40 am this morning. Secretly I knew the weather today was forecast to be cloudy and cool. So I hadn’t that stock stimulus of wishful thinking to rattle me in my prolonged slumber.

I am perhaps feeling more frivolous than usual on the heels of an animated conversation we had last evening with my sister and brother-in-law.  They regularly do us the favour of telephoning and gabbing with us, dutifully catching up with their country cousins. We four have always ample dialogue and pleasantries to share, invariably punctuated by foreseeable side cracks and summary joking observations.

It was in this spirit of buoyancy earlier this morning, after an uncommonly toothsome breakfast prepared by my beloved partner, that I undertook a fleeting ride about the neighbourhood upon my Pronto tricycle.  Undoubtedly the design and motive were to accommodate my predominant feature of indolence. It worked. As mentioned though the air was on the coolish side. I hadn’t yet donned the blue Van Heusen sweater my brother-in-law had purchased for me at Costco several weeks ago. It always pleases me to rejoice upon the acquisition of something new – that is, to conjoin the application with success. It is a decided defeat to discover something new doesn’t fulfill its projected utility. This is particularly so for one such as me who routinely denigrates materialism in spite of my uninhibited indulgence.