We’re sitting, cooped up inside Elsie’s newish apartment, part of a larger assisted-living complex she moved to after parting with the old family home and cottage over the course of the last year or so.
“Not the best time to be unloading real estate, Barnaby,” she told me throughout the process, twisting and difficult at various points, “but absolutely necessary. For my state of mind.” Continue reading
4:37
a.m.
In the morning.
I am dooming.
As the kids say.
Or so I’ve heard that’s what the kids say.
I am on old man. By any standard of measure. My sources on such matters could well be unreliable. Continue reading
“So Patty and I are on the outs,” Cecil informs me over breakfast. Mine the usual yogurt, fruit, grains, nuts and pulses. I think there are some pulse qualifiers in the mix in my bowl. Cecil’s ventured for some French toast today. Comfort food, he tells our waitress, Roxanne. “To cure the broken hearted,” he mocks. Himself, not Roxanne, that is.
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