Three more people asking for directions. The last one beckons me over and starts talking before I remove the earbuds. On the restart, he growls somewhat impatiently that he wants to get to the Yonkers Raceway. Yonkers Raceway is at least fifteen miles away, on the other side of the county. Come on man, you're not even trying. I suggest buying an atlas would be a good start.
The trees still hate me. I'm walking to the station yesterday morning when there's a slapping in the leaves above my head. I stop in my tracks, and a dead branch crashes to the sidewalk a foot or two in front of me. Was this because of that forsythia pruning incident? Because the Rye Public Works department made me do it.
Nice to see Tertius taking an interest in finances. He hands me a coupon that's he sketched for a billion dollars, with my name on it. "Buy yourself something pretty," he urges.
(How about Greece?)
Since my current retirement income strategy is hoping at least one of my three boys is going to be the next Bill Gates, I think this is a good sign.