Now is the winter of our discontent, Made glorious summer by this son of York;And all the clouds that lour’d upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Will Shakespeare
Last week… we had a strange emergency message in the night. Power plant emergency…. Like something out of a Simpsons episode. People freaked out. Turns out it was a false alarm. To me, even that is a bit dicey…. Well… ‘It turns out I actually live in the boundary that should receive free iodine pills….