Her body is rejecting the Year 2007, as wonderful as it has been. Now five months into the year and she still catches herself writing the date as 2006, or, more commonly, as 2008. In many things she has a predilection toward odds, but not so, apparently, with dates.
And to the families who live in houses alongside traffic lights: as the glow outside your windows changes incessantly from green to yellow to red, do you go slowly and quietly insane?
And finally, are we living in a society which is weeding plurals from our garden of identity?
No, the finally is this: what have I done to deserve any of this current reality? (So said with a smile on her face.)