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Things That Go Bump and Blow the Bottom Trumpet in the Night

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I have been staggering around a bit this morning due to a combination of factors.


1. Husband is away but has considerately left his alarm set at 4:25 a.m., which is the ungodly hour he set off for the airport yesterday. How I chortled when it went off this morning as well, there being a finite number of occasions that I love like a pre-dawn siren call. 


2. As his position in the bed was vacant overnight, there were a number of skirmishes during the early hours of the morning as various members of the Drama Queen fraternity circled the bed jostling for pole position.


3. As the finishing touch to the night, Drama Queen No.3’s favorite Christmas present, the remote-controlled fart machine, decided to malfunction. The end result of which was an eruption of loud and prolonged flatulence that echoed through the house. I woke to the rumble of a “bottom trumpet” as they are known in our house, and sat bolt upright convinced I was about to face a burglar in the last stages of a gastric attack.


Given these factors, it would be a mistake to say that fair dawned the morning in the Ling household, but I did roll out of the disputed territory, formerly known as the marital bed, and took the dog for a walk down to the beach before the rest of the house woke.


The beach in the early morning always puts me, if not in a good mood, at least in a relatively better humor. Today’s top smile-raiser was a man careering down the very steep hill on his bicycle, trailing his surfboard, or more likely paddleboard behind him by dint of a dinky set of wheels he had attached to the end of it.

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