Hell, time warps and house arrest

The past week has been Hellish in the Tar Heel State.

Dare to venture outside and Mother Nature tosses a wet woolen blanket over you and cranks up the furnace. The heat index — how hot the heat and humidity make you feel — has topped 105 several days running.

And so it is that at 7:30 p.m. this first week of summer, the sidewalks are empty of the usual parade of runners, walkers and dogs leading their people through the neighborhood.

Everyone has retreated to the great indoors.

And here, in the air conditioning, time disappears, endless days oozing like treacle into one another —  Sunday into Monday, Monday into monotony,  Tuesday into what day is it anyway and will I ever be able to go outside again?

This is the third day of this weather-imposed house arrest. I’ve spent the time doing a little reporting and writing, begun training for a virtual editing gig, and proofread the large-type hymnal for the V.A. chaplains. My filing is done. My desk is tidy. The floors are swept, the fridge is clean. I’m caught up on the laundry.

I’m busting out of here tomorrow before I do something desperate — like scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush.

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