One day at a time

I haven't been keeping track of how long we've been enjoying our coronavacation by now. We must be up to four or five hundred days.

For some reason, the Farm Manager has been obsessing over her sense of smell recently. I know you're thinking that's probably because I stink, which I do, but it's not that simple.

I am fully aware that there are yawning gaps in the narrative arc in this story, but beer and pot will do that to a person. In moderation, of course.

In any event, for some reason we got onto the topic of stink, and I brought up my sojourn in Saint John. Between the smell of the pulp mill and the refinery and the raw sewage they were pumping into the Bay of Fundy, the place had what a wine taster might call an "overpowering nose."

It stunk.

But to the folks who worked at the mill and the refinery, everything smelled like roses.