It is 11:23 p.m. as I am beginning this post.
Thing 2 just went to bed a little while ago and – I swear to you as I type – right now I hear Thing 1 walking around in the dark. Getting a drink perhaps.
Daddy-O has just started an episode of Poirot and if you know it at all (Do you know Agatha Christie’s Poirot at all?) you will know it isn’t exactly a thrill-a-minute-perk-you-up-and-write kind of program. Not at all. As a matter of fact I have recently decided that my husband pretty much uses Hercule Poirot and his 1935 crime fighting shenanigans as a sleep aid because he almost never makes it through an episode.
Meanwhile I, the one who resists it being started in the first place, am hanging on until the last minute – regardless of when that last minute happens to take place on the actual clock. You know the clock? The one that tells me I am up too late. The one that says Early Band is happening whether or not Mr. Poirot solves the mystery**. The one that at this very minute is breathing down my neck telling me to write something and hit publish tout de suite! (Did I mention Poirot is Belgian? That’s right! He speaks French.)
I am exhausted!
It has been a really great week filled with all kinds of good news and happy making shenanigans and I think all the action has finally caught up with me and my “little grey cells”***.
Here we go again! I am asking questions about the storyline and my best husband is asleep.
**Of course he solves the mystery! Oh mon Dieu! Of course!
***OY! Poirot says this! How did I get into this?!?