Sunday morning. It has rained, the weather is perfect, the sky has a washed look — just right for spending the day at the farm.
There is beer in the fridge, an unread pile of books by the bedside — what more could a man want? “Good morning,” says my wife, ruining the contemplative moment. I am putting bread and eggs in a basket, rolling up the newspapers — all that I need to carry on my day away. “I am coming with you,” she says, and will not be dissuaded. I would not mind — not too much, anyway — if we leave right away, but my wife ...
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