At a distance of 70 or 80 feet, I could see my neighbor Doreen come out on her front stoop. It was perhaps 6:30 and time to be getting ready for work ... but first a few minutes with the morning paper.
When Doreen did not see the familiar yellow plastic sleeve lying on the stoop, she peered into the garden to the left and right of the stairs: Perhaps the paper had been tossed there. Still no paper. Finally, I called out from my vantage point on the porch, "I didn't get one either." "My day is ruined," Doreen called back half-humorously. "How am I supposed to start my day? I guess I'll have to make up my own news." "You make it up and I'll be sure to read it," I said, and our dialogue ended.
A sparkling, crisp morning relieved of the heat of previous days and yet ... a fly in the ointment.
But wait! All was not lost. The garbage men appeared in a two-truck caravan and picked up first the paper goods for recycling and then the brick-a-brac trash and then moved on. Monday was Monday once more....
Except for the dratted newspaper.
Always a fly in the ointment.
But whose ointment and whose fly?
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