It was as I forced myself to wash out the toilet plunger used in the basement apartment that I thought, here I am, for hours on this glorious day, doing these vile things. This is punishment. I was bad in a past life. Or I am being punished for my good fortune in living here, having my life.
I know, silly and apocalyptic. But it’s not quite over, the penance of downstairs. I just opened the bathroom cabinet and found – splashes of blood? Whatever it is, it doesn’t want to come off. Who sprays blood, or something else that’s red and more or less permanent, on the inside of a bathroom cabinet?
I know you don’t want to hear any more about this. So I’ll stop. It’s almost over. But there are surprises.
On Saturday, Sam cooked a stir fry for me while entertaining my aperitif partners Monique and Cathy. Very good to see him, even if we can’t hug. Here’s a shot he posted on Instagram, of his solemn past self at work.
Yesterday, I rode to visit Isabel Huggan, here from France though soon going back to sell her home there, now taking care of the pretty house of a dear friend of hers who died recently, which will also soon be for sale. It has a lovely small garden and a sunny artist’s studio – I wish I’d met her friend. For a moment I thought, this house is a more manageable size and I wouldn’t have to be a landlady, I could sell mine and buy this! But no, I’m stuck here, I love this place and my neighbourhood too much, despite everything. It was fun to contemplate a move, though.
Isabel and I had a great catch-up over much rosé. And when I got home, Monique asked me over for another glass, so I was roséd out. Good thing I didn’t have any energetic plans for the evening, just watched a bit of a PBS special honouring Joni Mitchell. I didn’t know Graham Nash wrote one of my favourite songs, “Our House,” for her when they were a couple. What a life she’s had. Oh, and Isabel’s friend was also a lover of Leonard Cohen’s. These lucky women.
