Tuesday. Lights out last night well before ten to awaken once during the night for about twenty drowsy minutes and then up finally at six-ten or thereabouts. Not a bad night. Quite cool walking to breakfast in a winter coat, the eyes watering and the nose wanting to run in the chilly air. At least it was light.

The plain waffle with sliced bananas and strawberries, toast, fruit cup and coffee for breakfast. Haven't had that in a while. Read the three papers of course, o. d.'ing a bit on the turmoil that's seemingly become the norm in these last years. For all the shoes that have dropped, it still makes you fear a really big shoe is now due to drop as well. War? Where? Depressing thought for an early morning.

A decent walk home, the usual picture of people's backs walking on ahead along the sidewalk, the flower cluster that's now dry, discolored and falling apart and a not very informative picture of the work crew down at that parking lot. We'll go take a more informative picture later with a better camera.

Later. A quick walk (all of a hundred feet or so) to the perch overlooking the parking lot to take a series of pictures of their progress. I'd like to take a look into that hole to see how deep it goes as it looks as if they've taken out a lot of dirt for something with its diameter.

Otherwise just kicking around here in the apartment. Not particularly hungry, don't need to go by an ATM, not due to get any blood drawn for at least another week so I suspect we've had our day's outing.

Evening. News, a little guitar, cooking some of this and some of that for lunch and the afternoon has whipped right on by. Just like that.

Watched Democracy Now! with a little guitar (been a few days now since I've picked up the guitar), otherwise nothing I want to watch tonight on television. I did read the first short Father Brown story in a Dell paperback I bought in 1965 or 1966 (a ninth printing dated September, 1965) when I was in college for a retail price new of forty cents. When's the last time a paperback sold retail for forty cents?

The author, G. K. Chesterton (“ton” and not “son”) born in 1874, died 1936, wrote in a very distinctive and easily identifiable style, handling his character as far from the television version of his character as one can imagine. OK, enough of that.

I did check Charlie Rose at eight. Watched some of it, but then bailed.