After all of the corduroy hullabaloo yesterday, I woke up this morning with a terrible headache. Overdoing it is a looming concern for a young lady in her 80's, such as myself. My ambition is far bigger than my constitution. The hardest part of controlling my exertion is the delayed feedback loop. It takes about 12 hours to kick in-- the side effects of too much hullabalooing, I mean.
So I undertook the day slowly. I pulled my weary bones across the wide floors of my bedroom, down the hallway. One wall in our hallway is exposed brick. It's very rough and uneven and offers handholds I appreciate.
I positioned myself in my velvet chair and looked out through rain streaked windows. Tom and I ate some delicious eggs and good smelling coffee with whole milk topped with cream.
I propped my book on my lap, I'm re-reading the Westing Game by Ellen Raskin. It's a curlicue of a mystery story I first enjoyed 70 years ago and its allure tugs at me still.
Ellen Raskin lived in Greenwich Village on Gay Street, nearby here. But she died of a terrible disease. People always die too young.