And all that's to come runs in with the thrust on the strand

I did not see Psycho (1960) at the Brattle this afternoon. I thought seriously about it, because I loved that movie so much when I saw it last October that I have not actually managed to write about it since, but given the weekend I had to conclude that most of the audience would be showing up for irony as opposed to Anthony Perkins, so instead I stayed on the couch with a cat on my lap and wrote some more fiction which I am still attempting not to jinx and in the later afternoon went out to Lexington to make dinner with my mother and run errands and help with cleaning the house. It was low-key and nice. Frozen custard was involved. I have given her an IOU to plant things for her next weekend. Yesterday was my family's major observance of Mother's Day: despite the cold and the rain, we went to Kimball Farm in Westford where seafood and ice cream were had by all except my father who does has never liked seafood and my niece who is going through a phase of liking hot dogs better than anything else; she made small contented porcupine noises to herself as she ate. Tomorrow we have a plumber coming at some unknown hour, so I am prepared to get up early and treat them like Godot. Somehow I have a cat on my lap again.