A couple of years ago I used to have a giggle while driving towards Inman, SC, on a route that took me past a certain business which advertised itself with a hand-lettered sign reading “Bob’s Used Car.”
A friend of mine is going through a crushingly difficult time lately: she absolutely detests her job, has a brute of a boss and has to swallow his sarcastic jibes because, like millions, she dare not leave for fear of not finding work elsewhere.
So what are you doing on the 4th?” asked a well-meaning acquaintance I bumped into at the grocery store.
In reply, I stared. Not a ‘rockets red glare,’ stare, more of a ‘Whaaaa?’ stare.
“I have horses,” I said, as if that explained everything.
“Oh!” she smiled. “Does that mean you’re riding in a parade?”
As I write this column the desperate search continues for the five men (one, a teenage son) aboard the Oceangate Titan submarine somewhere near the wreck of the Titanic.
Now you know I love me some UFO scoops. And, like many, I believe—or should I say that I want to believe, UFOs and aliens are real— because it makes life far more interesting.
Both Paul and I have always had a love affair—from afar—with cars, mine stemming back to my single digit years on long trips to Florida during family vacations.
I’m really not much of a jet-setter, and the recent travels which have sent me to both England, and last week, to France, were quick turn-arounds.
And, as ever, horse related.
It wasn’t that many years ago that I met a woman, somewhere in her early 40s, who told me the most wonderful story.
Best of all, it’s true. Lean in, you’ll love this.
Well, of course I watched the Coronation of King Charles III. Recorded the night before, and at our usual time of rising, around 5 a.m., I turned it on as Paul made his habitual pot of coffee.
It seems everywhere I look these days I am seeing articles about the potential, and palpable fear, of Artificial Intelligence.
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