Fry-day

High temperatures are besieging us again. Perhaps we should get some ice blocks and go grass sledding. The cats keep drinking the water in my pot of Egyptian papyrus, about the only houseplant which has survived my drought-tolerant regimen. Said felines creep from shadow to shadow outside, or camp out in hidey holes they've discovered under shrubs and porches. One still soldiers on with us when we go out for my mother's walks, unless it is so hot that he does not stir fron his fainting couch in the shade.
As I walked back from the Bee Well alternative drugstore, where I get my mom's ElectroMix powder packs to keep her runnin' smooth, I passed a small condo building which had a unit for sale. The agent's name was M___ Furfiord, a woman. Shades of "Dr. Strangelove"...
Oh, it has cooled down mightily, and I bet it wasn't the Perrier and gin that did it. Zephyrs of 80 degree air are wafting into our hot house. Official high today, 97.
As sundown was in progress, we took a walk down towards Lake Union. The cityscape was bathed in alpenglow, facets of buildings rosy and almost iridescent. Gasworks Park was full of clots of people in all possible combinations, from white-haired lovers giving each other affectionate massages, to an assortment of pairs in various stages of attachment, geeky 13 year old boys talking computer games, and a young guy in a "Tommy" teeshirt - "see me, feel me, touch me, heal me" - with a small papier mache skeleton by his side. They were just talking, no funny stuff. the breeze across the lake and around the hill was delicious, and we all faced west to savor the darkening cirrus clouds and distant pink beyond the Olympic Mountains.