Reading O'Brian's Desolation Island

Jack, Stephen. Pullings, Killick, Barrett Bonden, Babbington. Mrs. Wogan.

Yesterday I finished reading The Mauritius Command. Poor Lord Clonfert.

For breakfast a large bowl of Quaker Oats, laced with raisins and topped with margarine. Filling enough to last all day. I haven't even thought about lunch.

Reading such elevated writing, as done by Patrick O'Brian, makes me want to talk and write precisely and elegantly. Or not at all, for shame.

So here I sit, another weekend looking forward to two clinic appointments on Monday. One at 8:20 a.m., Lord help me. I'll have to leave before eight o'clock in all that going-to-work traffic. At least I won't have to stop at UAB or proceed to 2121 (the old Social Security building). Twenty-four years I gave those entities, overworked and underpaid. Seven pleasanter years to General Electric and NASA, and eight or ten more to various businesses and law firms. I EARNED my Social Security, and I DESERVE it! Pittance that it is. However, I remember telling my mother, "I wish I received a thousand dollars a month without having to work." Among many things I regret having said to my mother. Three, to be exact.