WET IN THE HEAD
If this were a forest, small animals would scurry for cover, or shelter underneath large floppy leaves.
Woodsmoke would be discernible. Perhaps from my own hearth.
And all day might be tea-time.
Wet weather is perfect for smelly individuals such as myself. No one minds the fragrance of tobacco, when everything else reeks so much more powerfully.
A fully-packed office elevator, for instance, will carry the scent of soggy dog or sodden designer clothing (faint perfume of dry-cleaning fluid mixed with water and car-exhaust) for several hours after the morning rush.
Barely are the bureaucratic drone-folk dry again, or it is lunch time, when they must once more brave the downpour.
That, probably, accounts for many broken diets.
Everywhere is near a burger joint.
With that in mind, I recommend commandeering the office toaster. Not only is that device suited to crisping your bagel, it can also be used for thick slices of bread, darkened to golden crunchy, and slathered with butter. On top of which you could spread chunky marmalade, OR thin slivers of prosciutto. Even, if you did not work with a passel of picky office-ladies, some freshly mixed tuna salad. Which is why you should always have a can of Starkist at your desk, and a jar of bitter orange preserve in the fridge.
Plus butter. Office work depends on butter.
Years ago one of my co-workers kept his hot sauce in the office refrigerator. Which was not wise. Desperate members of the sales crew one day made off with it, to spend all of an inclement afternoon dousing their tortilla chips.
I doubt that anyone puts marmalade on crunchy snacks.
Except, perhaps, bachelors and college boys.
Toast. Marmalade. Butter.
It's a mantra.
Mentally, I am inside during a downpour right now. I have finished my pipe, and I am making myself some toast. All is well with the world.
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