an arbitrary week

All I want to do is go to bed with a good book. Something light and fluffy that doesn’t make me think too hard or long to write in the margin. I also want to eat sushi. Or nothing at all. Because nothing at all is preferable to anything else I can think of. Except sushi. Spicy tuna rolls. Yum.

Flynn just sent me this email: ‘Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well.’ Hemingway, Snows of Kilimanjaro. It made my day.

The other night at a ‘do’ The Euro looked at me and said “Make yourself useful. Get me a drink.” I walked away and thought about leaving for Peru – Peru’s been on my mind a lot you see – and all the things I would have said and done if he had said the same thing two years ago.

I remembered Steph’s admonition, “Choose your battles.” And Mal’s ever-constant reply, “Ok. I choose this one!” And then ran into both of them at the door. I felt better, and turned around and ran into him. He said “I’m sorry” and gave me a champagne flute filled with diet coke and ice. Because that’s his kind of drink.