Mother of Exiles

Just over a week since the UK return.  Merriment in London and Eire, although surprising the level of disappointment in the Jays loss.  Mostly because it cancelled out the World Series possibilities for the second straight year.  The saving grace may be that it left room in the bank account to contemplate a last minute election ploy - to a new city and an old one.

Philly has long been on the list of places to pass through, and what better night to make the trek up the famous Balboa steps than the eve of this never-ending election?  And what better place to spend the day after (win or lose) than atop the pedestal of Emma Lazarus' New Colossus?  A true classic to add to the annals of your 60 hour holidays.

You might as well, since no work is getting done here.  Painful weekend of lying about, with remains of the donair from last week still unmoved from the bedroom, the laundry from the backpack left undone.  Instead, the contant checking in to Twitter for insta-updates on this election that seemed safe from the demagogue until the FBI decided to get involved.  Now the panic meter is ratcheting up.

What shalt thou expect, to be depender on a thing that leans.  O, for a horse with wings.  His eyes in flood with laughter.  Till he had melted from the smallness of a gnat to air.  Some marvelous lines to be remembered from the "reclaimed" Imogen in the Globe's last performance of the season.  And more besides. 

For now I must off to another Energy Law lecture.  Remind me to return to the cause of delight this morning, in learning that the Renoir post-card from 2013 has been found.  Back when you were en route to Varanasi and the Taj, having just secured the hearing dates in the arbitration from being delayed while GM was down in Florida.  Happy days, looking back.  Motivation for a return to Paris in 2017?  Perhaps.  How wonderfully magic if there were more to come from this serendipitous Clara...