I woke up determined to wash my hair, I was going to climb into the sink if necessary but I was going to wash my hair and I did. I even put some ear-rings on and got dressed, expecting pain but it didn't come for a while.
Brenda thought she could come over to take me for blood test but I was glad when she said she had a sinus headache so wouldn't arrive. Not that I was glad she had a headache but she always pushes herself and she should rest.
May came in and Mady came over for good conversation on the art world. I felt I was being welcomed back into the world I'd left on Christmas Eve. So a very good day it was.
I found out that Connie, my former husband's sister who died during surgery the other day, was in her ninetieth year but not ninety yet. I had been told for years that she was almost the same age as me and had to clarify the fact because being this kind of age, the slightest thing you get wrong gets you labelled as "slipping".
I am so sorry for Helen, his youngest sister because she is the only one of the family left now.
I wrote a poem when I was sixty five - can't find it but yes, when I was living on my own I burned a pot on the stove, hastily ran it under cold water and put it out on the balcony so no one would know.
Who arrives but one of my sons, sniffing and scrunching up his forehead and asking what had happened. A thirty-five can burn a pot but when a sixty-five year old does it, word flies around on smoke signals to the whole family and it's the beginning of "watching mother."
My dear friend from sixty years ago Wilda, phoned because she hadn't received a Christmas card from me. I checked my book and I had sent one but something must have happened.
signed No-burn-pot Doris
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