It has been a bit of a weird week.
Even for me.
It started early Sunday morning when, in order to save the folks I was working for, who raise their money one yellow flower at a time, a bit of money, I agreed to climb into the blue and green-coloured cigar tube for a flight to New Cleveland.
Thank the Goddess that particular airline's flight attendants have decided to tone down the dumb jokes, but I sure do wish they had something edible to eat on board.
Heckfire, I'd even be willing to pay for it.
Thirty-six hours later I was home and the next morning it was down to the local musical equipment rental goods emporium to get a PA for that night's big show in-front of the conference science geeks.
Luckily, our drummer needed absolutely no amplification whatsoever.
Then, first thing the next morning, Wednesday, it was back in the tube.
This time I was headed for Montreal for one of those two day grant reviewing blood baths wherein we geeks bash each other upside the head repeatedly trying to figure out how to eliminate more than 80% of our colleague's requests for operating funds.
And now it is Friday afternoon and I'm sitting in Dorval, exhausted, waiting for my last flight home.
And Martha Wainright just came my pod thingy doing that tune that always stops me cold.
For all kinds of reasons, including the one you might be thinking of if you know it well.
All of this blather is just my circuitous, digressive way of letting you know that, as so often happens when I've been traveling alone for awhile, that the melancholy is on me.
Which is something the good Mr. Isbell knows all about.