Thursday. Lights out and to sleep early enough to awaken at six again, half an hour before the alarm. Yes, we'd awakened and gotten up twice during the night, but still a decent number of hours of sleep and so up and off to breakfast, still grumbling a bit until we got out the door and into the (cool, overcast) air and consciousness arrived. Or something like that.
Home now to futz with this and see how the day falls into place. Nothing on the schedule, but many things I've been putting off, a long, long list I'm usually able to ignore with a smile.
Later. A bus downtown to Latham Square in the late morning to take the usual set of pictures and then walk on to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription refill. Another thirty day prescription, I've got to change it to ninety. (Or have I said that before? Many times? Without action?)
A bus home, not stopping at the apartment house construction site, it was noon and I rationalized bypassing by saying there would be no people about, to go straight home and do the usual stuff: listen to the news, surf the web, download pictures, pick my nose. Well, no. We don't pick our nose and, if we did, we certainly wouldn't mention it.
A walk then later by the lake to Lakeshore just to get outside again and, remembering as I was walking, to pick up a birthday card for Mr. W if it were possible to find an appropriate card for Mr. W, an old artist friend. Can't send just any old cute commercial piece of crap to an old artist friend and figured I wouldn't find one, but I did. My, my. A crunchy something or other and coffee at the bagel shop to celebrate. One hopes Mrs. W will also find it amusing, although I suspect she will.
Now, how to be sure the card arrives in San Francisco by Saturday? Send it tomorrow and it will arrive, right? Maybe not and so, fill out the card and then out the door again to walk to the post office to get it stamped and sent today and to pick up two books of forever stamps, remembering I was almost out. Still no apartment house construction site photographs.
Evening. Time on the tablet, some part of an hour watching Charlie Rose interview Thomas Friedman and Dexter Filkin. I usually skip Friedman, but found, getting in on the last portion of his interview, his comments of interest. His comments are often interesting, he has a following, but his history of error and dumb mistakes isn't of the best. Filkin was commenting on a story he has in the current issue of the New Yorker that I will now read.