It was a Thursday.
On Thursdays, Prysanthemum the Pug went to the baths from two to four o’clock. That made for prime adventuring time for his Doghouse, Dot. Glory, honour, excitement, fortune, and renown lay just over the horizon!
But first, Dot had to overcome one minor obstacle: voluntary movement.
It’s Thursday. I hate Thursdays.
Thursdays are when the dames come, sobbing, pleading, and looking for a pro-bono Private Eye.
On Thursdays, I say “know” more often than a philosophy student who just learned about epistemology, but without the “k” and the “w”.
Today, I surprise myself. I say yes.
Every Thursday, Maxwell brought his Mum to Bingo. She never said thank you.
One week, she won fifteen thousand dollars. She took a limo home.
Next Thursday, she called him. “I need a ride to Bingo,” she said. “I spent all the money on clothes.”
He said, “Take the bus.”