Life alternates between resembling a bowl of cherries and being anongoing game of whack-a-mole!

He who will be turning eighty years old, in a few days, if his behavior doesn't bring about a spontaneous (wife instigated) demise, is now banned from eating cherries in my car. He has slunk away to take a nap; saved by an incoming phone call.

Whilst on the phone, with the Architect calling about a new client, I managed to sponge down the collie colored cloth seat and matching beige interior of the passenger door, as well as fish a squishy, overripe cherry from the recess in the armrest.

The cherries were purchased from a street vendor, less than a block away from our home. The mayhem was perpetrated with unbelievable alacrity. I had stopped because cherries are one of  TAO's favorite things and they've been scarce so far this year.

I suspect that a large part of the appeal of cherries is the spit-out-pits exit strategy required of little boys and their immature elders. Unfortunately, lack of accuracy, combined with spitting from a semi-reclining position; adopted due to various arthritic parts, combines with shot-gun spittle; as opposed to sniper precision, resulting in a scatter-shot effect on the interior of the car, looking much like blood spatter at a crime scene.

One more skill-set gone down hill with age.