Just a body made of glass

selkie sent me a T-shirt for my birthday. (Mine is in royal blue.) I wore it to this morning's doctor's appointment; it seemed appropriate. It is gratifying and probably a little sad that the nurse practitioner who wore a pride flag pin on his lanyard agreed with me.

The contractors have not only demolished our front porch except for the steps, which are currently floating in a sort of diagonal void of wrought iron, they have uprooted almost our entire front yard. I had just been feeling affectionate about the lamb's ears at the bottom of the walk. It's really not the same thing to pet in passing the chunks of cement which used to be our porch's foundations. Nothing had better happen to the two tall yew trees which used to flank the porch and still shade our front windows. Autolycus is currently peering over one of them, sitting on a stack of boxes to observe the concrete-pouring action outside my office windows. Brave cat. I am living in earplugs.

Further adventures in radio theater include Oscar Wilde's A Woman of No Importance (1893), recorded by L.A. Theatre Works in 1995. It was one of the plays I had known on the page for decades and never seen or heard performed—see also most of the works of George Bernard Shaw—and man, that double standard remains demoralizingly topical. thisbluespirit has just hooked me up with a collection of Terence Rattigan per BBC Radio and I am looking forward very much to finally hearing the alternative version of Separate Tables.

First, I must move more boxes.