My lovely daughter, Livy, spent almost an hour on my lap this a.m. after she got up. We talked of most everything under the sun, kidding with each other, too, and thinking up fantasy things.
I told her I'd been reading my paper after I got up, and she said (with a smirk) that I was now not allowed to read my paper again for 100 years "when people are dead."
Well, of course, I protested much about these new restrictions and began to "cry." She quickly revised that forecast because The Good Queen (a frequent companion of hers these last couple of weeks) had decided that I, indeed, could read my newspaper anytime and write about what I read. And, to boot, The Good Queen had decided to reward me with a new white computer "with, um, lots of buttons and lots of games and sticky things on it so you can put your computer on a wall and miles and miles of cords to you can play on it anywhere."
I, of course, was happy with my new gift, and Livy and I "played" on the computer and explored it for a good while.
Livy then informed me that The Good Queen had bestowed upon Livy's friend Ethan a lollipop bigger than space along with a ladder to climb to the top of the lollipop and that it would take Ethan and Livy and the rest of us at least TWO DAYS to lick it all up.
The Good Queen then peremptorily revised the amount of time I was allowed to "play" on my computer to just "the day before people die in 100 years."
"Oh, I said," astounded by this new revelation. "What am to do on that last day, my love?"
Pause.
"Play!" she giggled.
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