OK. It's all about Forsythia bloom, Cedar Gall, and the morning after hangover from an excess of exertion that gave shine to the shovel. These past months I have not been saintly, I have pontificated through the valley of sloth and I have feared no evil.
I now have a waddle Sumo Wrestlers might envy.
My hands are soft, my elegant wrists limp from daintiness, my wing and knee in
so terrible a revolt I firmly believe they will shortly secede.