I’m in the early stages of a PLH-BRS-EWR-PDX itinerary. Stop two, enjoying what is perhaps the worst bloody mary of my life. And that’s saying something.
This is clearly karmic balance for the window with nobody in the middle seat on the BRS-EWR leg, and the exit row, again with nobody in the middle, on the EWR-PDX leg. And I’m not sure it’s worth it.
My thoughts go out to John Hartson and his family. He was one of my favorites on those Celtic teams.
Freddy Flintoff appears to be injured again. It must be Tuesday.
This I don’t care about.
This however, I do give a damn about. It’s been 11 years since the Good Friday accords. It’s been up and down, of course, but one would think that the so-called Real IRA might have received the memo sent out by Mr. Adams and Mr. McGuinness.
It’s 14 July in England, so I’m stunned that it’s raining. I don’t think I’m going to too much mind some time away from this island.