Helas! What a week. One has been legally admonished. (Or is it truly legal? Friends with paralegal certification have been heard chortling hysterically in the background.) One has suffered undue contumely. One has endured horrid robocalls.
Humble moi, somewhat becalmed in writing due to circumstances beyond her control, turns her contemplation to the feast of dainties offered by the county's soap-opera twists and turns. If there are readers who any longer care, is there a clear preference for the most novelworthy contretemps afoot this season? Opening sentences spring up in one's head: "You could be forgiven for not having noticed there was a Treasurer's race in the County. Most people in most counties don't think much about the treasurer until they get a tax bill -- even though that's the one thing that's certain, as they say, aside from death. In this race, we were dealing with both."
All right, as they used to say in the parlor game, who, where and with what weapon?
Or are there more possibilities in tricycle racing? "Sprawled ten yards from the finish line, legs tangled in the stunted pedals of a twisted pink tricycle..."
Batter up!
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