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Honey, the door-to-door funeral salesman’s been…


Yesterday was Shrove Tuesday. In sunny climes, they celibrate Mardi Gras with a great wicked bacchanalian festival. In Britain, they make pancakes.

But I don’t want you to think Brits lack all sense of fun; housewives traditionally make these pancakes while running a footrace.

Me? No. I didn’t make any pancakes. I assumed “wifely duties” had something to do with surprise sex. Running the hundred-yard dash while flipping flapjacks in a skillet? Day off to sulk.

Another Shrove Tuesday tradition is to strip the churches of all extraneous decoration, so that services during Lent are conducted with maximum austerity. That means all those leftover lilies from the Weasel/Badger wedding had to go somewhere. Very thoughtfully, someone left them on our front stoop this morning.

I went out to get the mail and, for one dizzy little moment of freefall, wondered if I’d made it through the night.

February 25, 2009 — 6:31 pm
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