El Jefe is snoozing in his verandah armchair, and all is quiet. His glass of scotch is on the wicker table at his side, along with FLINKY the cat, yesterday's Daily Telegraph and Count Ciano's diaries. But where are we ? Maybe it's El Jefe's rent-a-palace, because for some unexplained reason, a sign over the palácio entrance proclams that the place is the Palácio del Gobierno de Nuevo York. Out on the palace grounds, for some strange reason (dreams are like that) steamrollers are cruising around, but quietly, so as not to awaken the Great One.
Meanwhile, El Jefe slumbers on, dreaming no doubt of Jenny McCarthy, lunch in Estoril (or was it Seaside ?), and sunsets in Baja. As the Maximum Leader snores, El Jefe's faithful retainer, bodyguard and very old-school Prussian major-domo, Fritz, approaches, carrying a ginormous silver platter with a huge telephone on it; which he plugs in. Momentarily ditching his German accent in favour of that of an English butler (all the while carefully avoiding dropping his monocle in El Jefe's scotch) Fritz intones: "The phone, sir. It's Mr. Churchill in London."
And the alarm rings. . .dragging the Great One back to a much, much less interesting and pleasant reality. Have been hard at work this week on the day job, so less time for posting than I would like. Hopefully, I will make up for that soon. Too, too much of interest going on in the world -- precious little that's good. If you're in a tall building, look outside, you might see the dollar or the occasional banker falling like a stone. Don't jump after them yet though.