Apologies to all who clicked on my blog only to find that I wasn't there. I notice all my followers have disappeared, having nothing to follow. I'm not sure where I was. Under a snow bank somewhere I expect. The inn was closed. I was closed.
But now it's spring, the blackbirds came back to me, the geese are nesting, cardinals tap at my window, nuthatches have set up house in the bluebird box and every day brings a new arrival to our feeder. My breakfast table is again filled with guests and I've returned to my post in the kitchen, happily setting tea towels alight and pouring orange juice into my shoes.
But this morning something happened that was so weird that I had to tell somebody and all my guests have checked out - so here I am. I was telephoning through a credit card payment and apparently (!) misdialed and got instead an extremely chirpy woman who announced rather improbably that I had reached the palace of pleasure and pain. I could hear sounds of somebody washing dishes in the background while she assured me that I was about to experience such delight and agony as to be indescribable. I hung up but can't help wondering about her and about this peculiar world I find myself in. There is nobody here but me. Would she tell me to get a hammer and bang myself on the head? Why would I do that? Why would I require some lady busily washing her dishes to tell me to do that? Please don't answer these questions. Anyhow, I have to go. My computer informs me that I've got mail. It's from Anthony Weiner. I wonder what he wants.
