My days of writing are few. It seems that moments of writing clarity are too often interrupted by household chaos and The Curmudgeon’s ill-health.

He has so few good days any more that it is difficult to sit and write when he’s in so much pain. I seem to have to jump up and do something for him or dogs every time I get seated for more than a minute.

I’m tired all the time and my brain fuzzes. I’m horrified to find my self dozing off with Lucy for an hour or so every night lately.

Lucy doesn’t mind.