This is the time of year that we hapless consumers are offered an ever growing array of products containing pumpkins and/or the seasonal spices that go with them. While beer is a growing popular medium for pumpkin spice and pie is traditional, I prefer to indulge in a pumpkin doughnut. I don't want pumpkin spice in my coffee or tea either, thanks.
At the end of the street a parade of costumed children are marching to a full band, brass and drums and all. My plug in string of light up eyeballs is up in the window and the glow in the dark skeleton is hanging on the door. I found my witch hat, I have a fog machine. All I need is the candy to throw at the feral children when they threaten at the door. Maybe a bottle of Old Rake beer, no pumpkin ale. Pumpkins don't belong in beer.
There is a car barn across the street from my house. It was built long ago when the covenants in the neighbourhood adjacent prohibited the building of garages. There are some rare specimens in there. I don't know a model T from its close cousins, but I wouldn't be surprised if one were lurking in the shadows. Behind the Audi limo. Some stunning cars get rotated through there. Today a late model Maserati was parked on the apron while whomever was driving it paid a visit.
One spectra of the side effects of chemotherapy are called neuropathies. This may present as tingling or stinging your hands and feet but in my case I have floppy feet. I pulled out the pricey sport Mary Janes I bought for work last fall and they are doing wonders for the floppy feet walk. I still have floppy feet but the shoes are secure.