This is Me.

I’ve been feeling a bit rough for the past couple of days. Nothing remarkable; a few bouts of nausea, some headaches, sore sinuses, listlessness… It could be due to the change in the weather. It could be the recurrence of an old infection I picked up a few years ago (the offending digit has become painful again.) It could be the enervating effect of stressful circumstances. It could be a second cancer declaring its presence. It could even be the fact that I’ve eaten half a pound of mushrooms over the course of two lunches (don’t ask.) They’re all credible, so how can I know?

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Given what I consider to be a reasonable life expectancy, it saddens me slightly that I won’t see the Lady B’s little girls grow to the age their mother was when I first met her (I encountered them for the first time on Wednesday.) On the other hand, neither will I see their mother fade into middle age. That’s nice.

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I started watching an old movie tonight and heard a particularly pleasing compliment offered by a particularly intelligent, oddball, and generally impressive young woman to a besotted, though likeable, young man:

I remember seeing you at my dad’s office. I thought you were… not boring.

And then we had to be treated to the kind of graphic sex scene so beloved of American film makers. I wonder why American film makers are so in thrall to the graphic nature of sex. Frankly, I wish they weren’t because I find such scenes worse than tedious. I don’t know why, I just do.

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I do hope nobody found this post by searching for references to The Greatest Showman. Sorry to disappoint.