Okay, St-Emilion was pretty cool. My daughter didn’t get to sit on the magic pregnancy bench, because it was in the lower village and well, as we’re discovering, France makes minimal effort at making things accessible to the disabled. Still, good wine, and there was some kind of mural for financing armageddon?

I’m not entirely certain what all that was about, but my wife and daughter did light a candle for their recently deceased mother/grandmother there. She wasn’t a practicing Catholic anymore, due to yet another local scandal involving a sick priest and children, which directly affected close friends of hers, but I believe she still took some comfort in belief. At least, I hope so, given the terrible number Alzheimer’s brought on her.

Hey, Catholics, maybe if you rethought that whole marriage/sex thing, you wouldn’t have so many fucked up perverts in your midst.

Just a thought.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 147 words, novel: Father Lightning