Write about: the strike.
This morning was spent harvesting (mostly berries) for the bakery, this afternoon featured delivery of said harvest, along with stops at the bank (deposit), liquor store (returning empties), and grocery store, and tonight was all about using the weed eater on the sprinkler rows.
And so now, rather unsurprisingly in my opinion, I am tired and ready for bed.
He had stopped reading the papers several days ago, having realized that they had no more knowledge of the situation than he did. Baseless rumours and unfounded predictions were of no use to him. There was, sadly, nothing to do but wait.
Or, he supposed, to start walking.
As ridiculous as the idea was, he had given it some serious thought on more than one occasion. With no end to the train strike in sight it was even possible that he might arrive before the next train did.
Just as momentum began to build and he started to plot his route, he'd remember his bags. And how seriously, depressingly heavy they were.
He didn't have the strength for that undertaking.
So instead of carrying them through the woods, over hills, and alongside meandering rivers, he sat on them. Tried to make himself comfortable. Ignored all of the other restless and muttering passengers on the platform.