The garden gnomes tried to get into the house last night. Their hats blew away in the wind, and they got scared. Not enough oatmeal, likely. Their fingers left thin streaks in the grime on the basement windows where they tried to open them. The house flies think the streaks are freeways, up and down, up and down, up and down. Where do they think they are going? It’s 1943. Nothing’s open on Sunday. I need a hand vac.