For reasons too complicated to go into, this has been my latest read:
I had a disdainful nose in the air before I began, but to my annoyance soon began to chuckle (oh dear, I must be a girl after all). The elaborate typographical jokes were a slight pain, but Kuenzler is rather good on the sausage dog so long that his back end was always doing something completely different from the front end. And on the Dingley Dell wedding with man-sized squirrel. Also rather good on the uncle who, trying to please his new fashionista girlfriend, has smartened himself up, and refuses to go to the playground in case he gets his suit dirty, to the horror of his niece:
“Was this the man who had driven across the Sahara Desert in his underpants because his shorts were holding the engine together? …”
Then today was bleak indeed, and raw; the flat sky dribbled a few mean little flakes and it was a good day to stay in, knitting lethargically, daydreaming, and reflecting on the vagaries of literature. And in idleness I had a snow poem; all eight lines of it. The insufficiency of the fall required no more.