Saturday Morning pileup

I’m stuck in a Saturday sandwich, between competing layers of Close Encounters (with commentary from Damon) upstairs and Ira Glass downstairs, under the leaden weight of a sleeping Chas on my lap and the beaming sun on my shoulders. There are pressing obsessions on my laptop: a map of museums and our morning itenerary that’s now past due. But the house is now clean, and the smell of freshly sliced limes is creeping across the kitchen countertop.