Write four lines of prose about: the destination.
In an utterly unsurprising turn of events, I have been infected with Max's cold. This is less than ideal.
Still going to the market tomorrow, but I'm leaving Kat and Max at home. No way I'm dragging him out of bed early to go hang out in the early morning cold. I'm not crazy about having to do that myself, but I'll manage. Through the power of coffee.
Also: one of Kat's cousins will be there to help for the first part of the market. She came a couple weeks ago to watch Max for us, so she already has a basic idea of what needs to happen.
We'll mostly have apples to sell, once again, but I did find a few pints of cherry tomatoes this morning after the garden dodged another frost warning bullet. There are four crates of plums on the truck as well.
The weather is supposed to be nice, so that will make things easier. If the forecast had even the slightest chance of rain in it I'd be staying home.
"You know what they say dear," my husband says with what is rather obviously false cheer, "life is about the journey, not the destination!"
I say nothing. I don't need to. We both know that this rat-infested bed and breakfast was not worth the time, effort, or even fuel we expended to get here.