Switching Tracks: Trains of Thought
Faulty metaphor for tortuous — and torturous — ruminations
When my son Douglas was three, he began to amass, piece-by-piece — thanks to his ever-indulgent Nana — an extensive (and expensive) wooden railway system.
The components were made by Brio. The painted cars — blue, red, green, and yellow — could be hooked together and book-ended…