It’s that kind of Tuesday morning which really should be a Sunday.
It rained all night and now the valley smells rich and mossy.
My sheets are freshly washed and perfectly crisp, beconing me back to bed.
The pot is brewing with more coffee than I can drink in my hectic scramble to get out the door, and pancakes are browning on the griddle.
The sun is a perfect shade of August, with a caressing breeze teasing and toying across my sunny porch.
Best not to ignore signs like this.
Clearly the calendars got it wrong.
Today is Sunday, I’m calling in.
I’ll go back to Wednesday tomorrow.