I started reading a novel for my book club yesterday and already noticed no fewer than three errors that could have been easily corrected by a copy editor or proofreader. In a printed, bound book. What is this world coming to?

Of course, my habitual spotting of errors in print is more of a sickness on my part.

I just dragged the trash can to the street and was intoxicated by the fresh, wild smell of the cold air around me. The light outside is a sedate blue-gray, the sky concealed by formless sheets of clouds, the trees standing still and dark against it. I wished I could stay out there longer and breathe, but coffee awaited me.

Oh then I checked the weather and apparently this glorious air is today infused with high levels of tree pollen. Spring!