It is still sunny out at five minutes past seven, local time, but cold. I have some Guinness in bottles in the fridge that have probably been there since last St. Paddy’s Day, but alas, no green. I’ve been waiting on my refund, three weeks after I e-filed my income tax return. *ahem*
Ah well. I may be poor and a bit pale, but I have most of my health. The day after my forty-sixth birthday, nearly three weeks ago, I succumbed to a bout of shingles. Roughly forty-some years after contracting chickenpox from a schoolmate. The patch, which was confined to my hip, was relatively small and responded to a week of antiviral treatment, but it is still itchy and painful to the touch. And my sleep has been even more erratic than usual. Here’s hoping we can open the windows soon and change the air in the house.