RATS! Summer’s over, like a beachy love affair that flared like a Fourth of July rocket but fizzled out like leftover Labor Day barbecue coals.
And there’s still a pile of summer reading by my bed. It begged for my urgent attention in June, like hungry cats, but now the books and magazines lurk more like sleeping dogs that have given up hope of being walked.
Waves of guilt force me into action, so I attack.