Tuesday. To bed and lights out by ten to awaken at five-thirty. Too early, but up easily enough to get ready and walk to breakfast on another overcast and cool morning. No East Bay Times again, but the Chronicle and the Times are more than enough to keep anyone busy over the oatmeal, toast, fruit cup and coffee I had at breakfast.

Sounds like every other day around here.

No complaints. I've got the mornings down. The gas had bumped up again by four cents a gallon this morning and so a picture. Same with the pandorea vine, the flowers wilting and turning brown. A comfortable walk home, no upsets (yet) from the sinuses, and a decent way I'd say to start a next to the last day in May.

Later. Tired and so zoned out on the bed for a surprisingly long two hours. Rather nice, actually, and the batteries, needing it or not, seem to have been recharged Out the door to catch a bus to the Broadway ATM. thinking I might get something to eat on the way home. If I could think of anything I could eat. Seems this has happened before: hungry, but nothing I can think of that appeals.

Ended up catching a bus home to then prepare spaghetti with red clam sauce. Why spaghetti with red clam sauce when nothing else appealed?

Listened to the News Hour play on television and then retire to the bedroom about half way through to lie down and listen to the rest of it on the radio before dropping off into another nap. Obviously still tired if I'm taking these naps.

Evening. Watched the first three of four interviews on Charlie Rose at eight after listening again to a radio interview with Senator Al Franken. I'd received that FedEx package earlier and so we're set for toothpaste, mouthwash and fiber pills for another couple of months and now to bed and the tablet.

There seems to be a certain uniform sameness about your days.

In some societies they'd call that success.

Then why spend all this time writing/thinking/whinging about it?