Yup. Sunday, the 22nd. New York Times Sunday, when I feel guilt-free, almost, about spending so much time with something not immediately productive—only in my mind, no use to anyone but me.
Matt is coming for a swim and dinner today, so I will be busy, and sore. At least I’m not coughing my guts out;. I’ m doing my best—and my best is none too good.
Anon, anon.
This should be the 21st. (IT WAS!) Laundry today because the new cleaner came and he can fold things. I’ve said before that fitted sheets and duvet. covers were designed for younger women. They are too hard for me to fold so I save the laundry so the cleaner can fold for me—and put the clean ones on. That’s a relief.
My grandson is coming to visit this afternoon with his wife and two children—two of my four great-grands. They will pick up their Christmas presents, waiting in my front hall for them. Last year they didn’t get them until March because the little girl was born three days before Christmas and they were very busy. This year they’ve had Covid and I’ve had flu. We’re finished (?) now.
I hope.
We all do—hope—but different. hopes. You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.
Later.
Like, tomorrow.
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