Good afternoon, Stroock's Books midweekers.
We had a helluva 12 hours. First our SUV died, on the streets of Somerville. After dropping Youngest Daughter off at dance, we parked on main to get a cup of coffee. Upon returning from the Donut the car wouldn't start. It's a dead starter, we think. We called a truck and were towed and dropped off at our preferred mechanic within an hour. Nice.
On Christmas Eve, 1978 we were jumping from the stairs and
Last night may have been worse. About the time our car was being picked up, our foot flared in pain. We spent the night on the couch in the most sustained, intense pain of our life, unable to dull it, unable to put a stop to it. We finally nodded off about 3 AM. We're back from the doctor. We have a case of Achillies tendonitis, a soft cast and boot. We've never felt more disabled.
And just last week, after a summer of doctor visits, we remarked to Mrs. Stroock, 'No more doctors for a while.' We plan, god laughs. For as it is written, we plan, god laughs.
Moving on...
Happy Battle of Hastings Day to all those that celebrate. Damn William the Bastard. Damn him. Reminder, England hasn't had a legitimate monarch since Harold Godwinson, Edward the Confessor's rightful heir. We've written extensively on Harold, William and the Normans. Some of our writing can be found here.
Today is also our first girlfriend's birthday. Ah, Kirsten. We shall take the image of your pretty blue eyes to our grave. There's a reason why A Line Through the Desert has to be in the spring of 1988.
We got a notice from Blogger about new content guidelines effective 16 December. Do not be surprised if this blog gets nuked. What then? We don't know.
DOGE report.
Several chapters of the 5th nuke novel have gone out and beta readers seem pleased.
*We've long accused our sister of shoving us down the basement steps because we got the last red popsicle, an accusation she denies lo these fifty or so years. Later we got her back by pushing a tower of blocks upon her, which chipped a tooth.