A plague had descended upon my tiny one bedroom. It left me tired, irritable and out of sorts. And Fergus Macgregor was my last chance for sanity.
“This is rather unusual,” Fergus said, standing in the middle of my living room in full bagpiper regalia. “I never perform for an audience of one.”
I offered a weary smile. “We aren’t alone.”
As if on cue, my upstairs neighbors started rearranging their living room furniture for the umpteenth time this week.
Fergus raised an eyebrow as he grabbed his pipes.
“How long?” he asked.
“How long can you go?” I answered.
The Weekday One Hundred 