Some days, to my eternal shame, I can hardly be bothered to put on clothes. I do eventually, even my lethargy has limits, although my only purpose in robing is to enable me to saunter very stoically to the mail box at the extreme end of the driveway. I do this seven days a week, even though we all are well aware that on Sundays there is no post, but habit is as habit must. Clothing for my jaunt is necessary, even under cover of a moonless night, for one never knows satisfactorily when a confrontation with a horse or a small child might be imminent.
Today was a day made for utter languidness, cold, wet, a November the Fourth best left alone as is practically possible. Propelling my memory backwards, a considerable feat as I have accomplished some abundance of past to peruse, I recall that this day has historically tended to be rainy and chill. This remembrance is made accomplishable simply because every November Fifth is particularly marked, whether conflagrations and explosions transpire or not. ‘Tis a date set in infamy for all eternity.