Shooting at the walls of heartache, bang, bang

I'm back; did you miss me?

We had a lovely, if idiosyncratic, few days at a beachfront penthouse.  I took Number Ten Ox with me, but I never even opened his bag.  Instead, I/we walked, read, ate, played Scrabble; had dessert, and in general enjoyed ourselves immensely.

We drove down Sunday morning in the rain, listening to American Top Forty for 1984.  Did you know that The Warrior and When Doves Cry were contemporaries?  Me, neither.  We broke our trip down at Lewiston, on Lisbon Street, where all the treasures of Lewiston may be found, to have breakfast crepes at Frans.  We arrived just before church let out and snagged the last table for two before the crowds descended, which was pretty much our luck on the rest of the weekend.  The Golden Rooster had Avgolemono, even though it wasn't on the menu.  Jumpin' Jakes didn't have shrimp scampi but they did have a haddock piccata that was to die for.  It rained like three devils crying all the way from the Cat Farm to Pine Point, and the sun broke through the minute we pulled into our parking space at The Residence.  I apparently sprained my ankle, but not bad enough that I couldn't walk (going to doctor today; yes, really).

So, anyhow; home now, and writing from the couch, with coon cats strategically deployed around me.  Trooper over my head, on the toppest platform of the cat tree; Sprite on her blue recliner; and Mozart on his hammock in the window.

At some point, I'm going to have to go back to work, though what I really want to do is read another book.  Perhaps I'll work on our talk for PhilCon for a bit, and then read.

So!  What've y'all been doing that's fun and/or interesting?

Today's blog title comes to your courtesy of Patty Smyth and Scandal.  Here's your link.