I woke up horribly ill this past Wednesday. I got up at my normal getting up time but within two minutes knew I was not going anywhere near work (which would have cheered legions of coworkers which was one of the reasons why I didn't tell them), so I called my boss and left an 'I'm not coming in today' phone message and went back to bed.
A few hours' sleep later and feeling considerably better I walked to the market to get a salad for lunch and to check out how, at the intersection with Harland Road where going left magically puts you on CT Routes 2 and 12, the sidewalk repair is coming along.
The answer seems to be: it's not, at least not very quickly. I walked past the site at close to lunch I suppose and the work crew was at a table under the shade of the trees in front of the Leffingwell House Museum while two (I counted them) police cars, one with lights flashing, hugged the sidewalk that you could still walk on. I couldn't tell you what the cops were doing as my ability to accurately detect 'protect and serve' is sometimes a little impaired.
Less impaired, thankfully for the sake of telling of today's tale, is my sense of irony because on the walk back from the market, past the (Fantasy) island (with Herve V shouting, 'the cars! the cars!') rolling right off the connector like he had a deed to the road in the glovebox of the car (because he probably did) was someone, most certainly not from here, in a cranberry-colored Maserati Levante, a sport-utility vehicle for someone who already has a Lincoln Continental pick-up truck and whose Porsche SUV in the shop because the tires once touched the unpaved road.
Some of us have more brains than sense; sure hope he was heading to one of the casinos because they have just the thing for that cash-flow problem.