Snagged the first clementines on Saturday morning, and the box was gone by Sunday evening (granted, there were eight of us this weekend, but still). They were perfect: tiny, juicy, with that ideal Clementinian balance of sweet and barely tart. Clementines mean November, and the first boxes are always so good, but then they get woody and dry and so quickly nasty and moldy. I think I must get another box this afternoon.
I ran in tights for the first time yesterday morning, and then again today. I ran faster than I've run in months, though I didn't feel any different.
We have not yet turned on the heat.
None of these statements are metaphors, though they seem, somehow, as if they should be.
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Hmm, I'm way further south than you and I turned the heat on over the weekend. More accurately, it got so cold that the heat went on. Apparently I had forgotten to put the pilot light out (this happens on occasion) and had turned the temp down to about 63. There had been a few colder nights before this weekend, but apparently it took several of them before the house got so cold that the thermostat kicked in.
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