Tuesday. To bed early to watch whatever on the tablet, lights out after nine to get what I'm guessing was a decent night's sleep, awakening at ten to six. OK. Looked as if it wasn't raining and so got up and headed down the stairs and out the lobby door to find the pavement wet under a very light rain. Back to the apartment for the car keys to drive to breakfast with the windshield wipers on intermittent.

Had the hamburger patty, eggs over medium, country potatoes, toast, sliced bananas and coffee for breakfast. Finished reading the papers five minutes before the meter ran out of time and so up and out the door to cross the street and photograph the two cent drop in the price of regular gas, returning to take a picture of the pandorea buds and the sidewalk before driving home. All appears well in Dingle-Dell, the world evidently not adding another war, nothing new I'm aware of out of the president and feeling reasonably coherent, whatever “reasonably” may imply anymore.

Later. A lie down on the bed on and off for a couple of hours. Seems to be part of the pattern: lie down feeling tired in the late morning to then get up and feel reasonably clear headed for the rest of the afternoon. And evening. I can live with that.

Raining and so no thought to go for a walk. Checked more than once, but the rain and the head argued against it. Two to one.

Evening. More time with the tablet to end the day, a British detective series this time, an odd amalgam of the currently popular conceit of a psychologically damaged lead detective who manages to solve similarly weird crimes in weird ways. This one has “visions” and I mention it only because I really don't like this now seemingly popular conceit. I guess I'm more a “just the facts ma’am” proponent of detective fiction.

Or something like that.

Or something like that. To bed early, too much time then with the tablet, lights out by ten.