Wear You Out
Friday. A bit of a change today: up at nine, hop a bus at ten-thirty to take BART to the Powell Street station in San Francisco to meet Mr. E and Mr. S for lunch at The Chieftain, an Irish bar none of us had heard of before reading about it in The Chronicle. Located, as it happens, on the corner at the other end of The Chronicle building's block.
Now, having skipped breakfast, I decided to have a hamburger and fries. Not something I might normally eat, but a test, perhaps, of this stomach thing, all the day's calories in one meal, meat and potatoes the tough nut for the stomach to crack after the operation (in the opinion of the surgeon). I believe it's called heartburn. I had a Guinness with the burger, hard not to in an Irish bar, but heartburn not unlike the heartburn I'd had after yesterday's adventure to Roy's. Only worse. Drank some water, came home, drank some milk, took a short nap. Heartburn no more, but I'm treating both Guinness and hamburgers a lot more carefully from here on out.
Other that that, what? I need to firm up the trip to Sacramento on Sunday to catch the baseball game. This should have been done late this afternoon, but I can handle it tomorrow. This lunching in San Francisco can wear you out.
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