The first thing I see when I get up is a news alert on my phone saying that Betty White has died 17 days short of her one hundredth birthday. I wonder if that is a good omen for 2022.
I wouldn’t tell Sam, about Betty White, as his response would be, “Betty who?” or “Care factor zero.” He doesn’t care about such things.
The day is already hot, early. 30 degrees. The house is still hot from yesterday. I go and water my pot plants and the garden. There is something therapeutic about watering in anticipation of a hot day. 38 is expected today.
Sam gets up some time later, and the first words out of his mouth, as he stands bleary-eyed in the lounge room door way pulling his boxers out of his arse, "What happened to 2021, I have no fucking clue."
Me neither. Woosh! No fucken idea. They just keep rolling away. The years.
We’re drinking coffee and Sam tells me Betty White has died. I'm impressed. Perhaps, this year is going to be different after all, I think.
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