A bit of sunshine this week, ending in drizzle.
I wizzed through the Olafur Eliasson
exhibition at the SFMOMA, as you had tipped me, S2.
I bought a medium duty three-hole puncher and carefully put it on top of the piles of paper in the study, ready for use.
After a month, the "chemo jokes" have started flying. We must be wary of shocking our guests.
I had dinner with 15 Dutch ladies living in SF. They complained about the bill, loudly, which was reassuring.
I went for Friday night drinks, but found I had nothing to say, except maybe when eyelashes start falling out. This does not make for two- way conversation; the bar has lost it's appeal.
I learned that there are men who have their t-shirts taken in by their local seamstress to get that sculpted look. Others just have their shirtsleeves shortened.
My three chemo turbans arrived in the post and were approved by my son. He said I looked like an Egyptian princess in one of them and was given permission to wear them.
Jip has been told he is the star student of his class next week, which means he will be allowed to hand out papers for the teacher all week. He is so proud, you would think he might burst.
Rosie has (nearly) learned how to slide down the stairs head first.