Ah, Sunday afternoon.

How I hate it. Sunday afternoon is, after all, naught but the itchy calm before the formidable storm of Monday morning.

Of course, these days I wouldn't know the formidable storm of Monday morning from my postman's bad breath. These days I get paid to lay around the house all day, waiting for something brilliant to appear on my computer screen.

Much, in fact, as I'm afraid you're doing at this very moment.

Gosh, but I hope you're not. Because if you are, you're about to become one disappointed traveler in cyber-space.

Ah, Sunday afternoon.

It's such an oddly harrowing time for the true neurotic.

Comment if you have the wherewithall for it (or if you know how to spell "wherewithall," which I'm guessing I don't) here.