Mid-line February, already.
A bouquet of red, pink and white roses and carnations sit on my windowsill, backed by the relentless gray skies of Syracuse. Flowers give me such a lift.
This afternoon there was a fire in a house on Gertrude Street, which put it a block and a half away from my window. Lots of black smoke—creepy.
Got a shower yesterday and clean-up today.
Yesterday also got yelled at by a nurse. He said that I had no right to “demand” that he “drop everything” and bring me medicine. His idea of “drop everything” was 45 minutes.
Short-staffed again today; call bells not being answered for an hour and a half.
Question: Can you name the three best-selling authors in the world? Answer: The Holy Bible, Shakespeare and Agatha Christie.
The thing about February is that there is nothing happening. People go to work, go home, change boots for slippers, eat supper, watch television and go to bed. Get up the next morning and, when asked what’s new, say “nothing.” All the money got spent at Christmas, all the energy got used up in January, and now there’s nothing to do but hibernate.
And James Square has denied access to the website that tells you when sunrise is.