the queen of flatlandia

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My left foot is wet. Well, maybe not wet, maybe just moist. No, that word makes some people a tad squeamish. Damp? No, that maketh this young-old lady think of musty old houses with brown splodges on the ceilings and black splodges growing up the walls. I shall just settle with wet. My left foot is wet. There be rain in the outside. Quite a bit of it, if you will. Rain means clouds, which in turn means no beautiful sunrise to gawp at as the bus kindly transports me from Here to There. The bus has just climbed a hill. When we reached the summit, I thought again of how I want to live there. Just there, on that flat bit, just before the road begins winding down the other side. It's the only hill for miles, and from that point there, one can see almost the entire kingdom of Flatlandia spread out below. It's actually less of a hill and more of a mound. Come to Flatlandia, where even the speed bumps are hills! One day, when the post-apocalyptic world is finding its feet again after Putin gets so peeved he blows our socks off, I think I shall be Queen of Flatlandia. I shall live on the hill-mound, from whence I shall survey my kingdom and my minions. I'll be like that fiery, feisty wench Boudica-Boadicea-Buddug, but maybe a little more successful. I am rambling. And my left foot is still wet.