Right, home from work, walk the dog, kids are back.

Mom!

Up the stairs for something.

Ugh, back down, no idea what I went up for.

Mom, what's for dinner?

Chop, sizzle, done.

Hello, fresh, can't slow life down, but it makes bringing everyone together around the table a whole lot easier.

So it's phones down, forks up.

Hello Fresh. Bring back dinner time.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

For Lucy had her work cut out for her.

The doors would be taken off their hinges, Rumpelmaire's men were coming,

and then thought Larissa Dalloway,

what a morning, fresh as if issued to children

on a beach, what a lark, what a plunge, for so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little

squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged

at Borton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this, of course. The air was in the early

morning, like the flap of a wave, the kiss of a wave, chill and sharp, and yet, for a girl of 18,

as she then was, solemn, feeling as she did standing there at the open window that something

awful was about to happen, looking at the flowers, at the trees,

with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling, standing and looking until Peter

Walsh said,

...