It was one of those days. Four hundred group emails changing the date, time, location and food preferences for a long-distance deposition; two thumbs down on a case in which the liability had heretofore looked favorable to the home team; a missing check to pay another expert reviewer; both copiers jammed at the same time; three denied motions; and I broke my French coffee press when my suit jacket caught on the handle. Bang! Smithereens. The dustpan could not be located, and I had to sweep the shards up using a piece of CAT scan film that had been cut up to fit into the yearning maw of the shredder as a substitute. There were no injuries.
Having accomplished nothing much worthwhile at the office, I went home, thinking I would relax a little before firing up the laptop and getting back to work. I had a brief to write. Back on the farm, I discovered that Timmy the Pony had (a) broken the fence in two different places, requiring a small sledgehammer, a different pair of gloves, and curses in several Romance languages to repair it; and (b) managed to lean his neck on the partition between stalls so as to effectively push the boards serving as a divider down over each other. The resulting reduction in height made it easy for him to reach over it and devour his barn-mate’s alfalfa.
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