"Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried."
Good old Shakespeare. You can always count on him to have the right words.
I hope, to bury 'all the clouds that lour'd upon our house' in the 'bosom of the ocean' somewhere...
The Pontine Islands, come the summer, with my father, if I'm lucky:
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