Tuesday. I hobbled horribly out of the bedroom just now, just after noon, the sprained toe having taken on a life of its own last night refusing to find a position where it didn't hurt like hell. How does that happen? You inadvertently kick something in the bedroom (I think it was the bedroom) and you say ouch and then its a bit sore for three days or so, you hobbling, but getting about and then it cripples you?
You promised no more complaining about body parts.
Even the little pills were to no effect, although I'm out of bed, finally; have read the papers, finally; have fed Ms. Emmy, finally. Well, Ms. Emmy. You don't feed Ms. Emmy “finally”. You get up and hobble like a man with a gangrenous leg to the cupboard and feed your cat. Part of the pact.
So, otherwise. An email from Mr. S saying his band in playing in San Francisco Friday night, a good excuse to go over to the city. I'm assuming the toe by then will have become something like a toe again. Or tractable enough to shuffle myself around door to door in cabs. Guinness I'm sure will facilitate.