Mr. Chilly thinks there's a draft. He's checked the front door. Not open. The back door. Nope. The trouble, which has not yet occurred to him, is that he's not wearing a hat. At the moment, that hat would be a royal blue thick stocking cap which used to belong to Becca, before she moved on to jaunty berets or woolen hippie hats with earflaps.
But here is what is wrong with Jeff and hats: He likes to pull them down over his ears in such as way that the hat is not actually over his ears at all--intead, the tops of his hears are squashed down and out by the hat, which sits just high enough on his cranium that a small crown at the top remains unfilled, like the tip of a pear. All in all, the effect is what you'd get if Larry, Darryl, and Darryl were possessed by the spirit of Dopey the 7th dwarf.
If I witness this, I will tuck his ears under the cap, and rearrange the hat's position to a more sporting sledder style. I cannot help caring about this. The hat is intolerable worn a la Darryl.
I am tired. The "Nano coffee-tablet" I popped last night (a free sample from the health food store,) did keep me alert through a trip to see Four Christmases with Ellen, Rachel, and Becca last night (reviews: mixed,) but it also gave me a certain level of middle-of-the-night consciousness that I don't ordinarily attain...hence, tonight I'm bushed.
I believe that the populace has achieved stability for the evening--2 out, 2 in, lockable door--so all that's diverting me is Les Mis on the Kindle, wanting me to jump back into the barricade with the combatants as they await the climactic scene. But tomorrow. I'm sure as grape shot that I cannot reach the end without Victor Hugo going off on another tangent--oh...probably several chapters on the composition of the soul of a Parisian chaiwalla or something. And that will be a trudge which requires a fresh brain, free of fog.
If I get Jeff a bomber hat, he won't be able to squash his ears, or--at least--I won't be able to tell. Thought.
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