Call me Heathcliff. I woke up feeling a bit Wuthering Heights-y today, which means I just had to don a snooty Ascot o’ the Day. It’s odd that I ever find myself in a silky, ascot-y, Wuthering Heights-y mood at all because I never really got into the vibe of the book. I admit I do overly enjoy the 1939 Laurence Olivier/Merle Oberon movie version of the book. And it is also true that the Kate Bush song of the same name gets pleasantly stuck in my head for hours, at least once a year, prompted by who-knows-what. All I can tell you for sure is that when I’m in a Wuthering Heights mood like I am today, the only logical thing for me to do is to head off for a drive in my truck—in search of windy, foggy, muddy moors over which I will aimlessly run while alternately crying out “Heathcliff” and “Cathy” to all ghosts everywhere in my vicinity. The ascot-less Skitter will surely accompany me and wonder what’s up. Or—more likely—I will just sit here in my ascot and re-watch the old movie until I get the moors out of my system.