Saturday. To sleep whenever it was (not too late, as I recall, if I recall) to awaken at five-thirty and listen to the KQED Weekend Edition news program until after seven to get up, make the bed, get dressed and drive again to breakfast: the temperature cooler, the air seemingly not too smoky and the sky clear. The weather people are saying into the low nineties later on a spare the air day. Best to drive was my rationalization thinking.

Ordered the avocado and mushroom omelet, country potatoes, toast, fruit cup and coffee, realizing maybe it was best I visit their bathroom before going home as I was finishing the papers, but discovered someone was in the bathroom and so waited. And waited. And waited. OK, I could probably make it home and use the apartment bathroom and so finished up quickly and walked to the car, driving straight home and making it to the bathroom in time.

A strange choice of daily excitement, this bathroom business, except I most certainly wouldn't have chosen such for excitement in a million years. Or something like that. It's warm, I'm tired and now we're babbling.

Later. A high of eighty-five on an afternoon spent watching golf and a Netflix series on the tablet, both of them in front of a fan, the smoke pollution outside reaching the Unhealthy For Some category.

Evening. Decided, as I got into the evening, to open the bedroom windows as I wasn't able to smell any hint of smoke in the air and the temperature had fallen well below the temperature inside. Watched the first thirty minutes of The Killing Fields, the KQED Saturday night movie, before deciding bed was the better option and so lights out after nine, the fan at the foot of the bed allowing me to sleep reasonably comfortably under the covers.