Taking Care of Celtic-Dad

This morning, when I woke up, Ian was sitting next to me, and he pulled the covers over my head and told me I should cover up, so I don't get a sunburn.  I agreed with him, in principle, but it was only a minuter or so - or less - before I uncovered my face and proceeded to talk and look around.  But Ian covered me up once again, reiterating the same message.  He really didn't want me to get a sunburn, and he knows whereof he speaks.  I'm something of a Celt's Celt, being both Irish and Scottish - in spite of a dash of English - and there's a reason that the French have been known to use the endearing "roast beef" (or perhaps "rosbif") as a label for the English - apparently in light of what happens to these hapless nordics when they come to Provence and other southern-France beach-country, and spend too much time in the son.  As bad as the English have it in the sun, inspiring steak-house labels, the Celts are positively brisket by comparison...

I'm glad Ian is working diligently to make sure I don't go the way of "roast beef."

(September 1, 2012)