The Price of Bacon

There was this air of foreboding when the plane touched down yesterday. If I would illustrate it, it felt like sailing towards dark, damning clouds that roll out from the distance, with the darkness and cold that was quick to envelope, extracting a quick and desolate “Oh Crap”.

(It later turned out to be indigestion, most likely caused by the large amount of bacon I ingested at the hotel breakfast spread. Rolling clouds of discomfort indeed.)

No bit of foreboding got me to this, however; shortly after settling down to unpacking the bag, the dad told me that the car repair bills - as car repair bills tend to be - might have just escalated beyond budget and expectation. I felt like my soul got ripped off, and it’s now still tangled to the ceiling fan, and I’m not yet in the mood to retrieve it.

I’ll leave it there till Monday.