continuing to wait for baby

The tricks to waiting are well-spaced errands, busywork and naps. This morning I filled a prescription, picked up my disability form and mailed off two Netflixes (The Pillow Book, which was ok, and Rabbit-Proof Fence, which was beautiful and unbearable and made me cry). We met Mum at a cafe, then I caught the J-Church to Open Door and rocked a yoga class. Yoga’s weird; it doesn’t look at all strenuous and isn’t really, but ten weeks ago I couldn’t keep it up for more than half an hour, and now my lunges and squats are strong for an hour and a half. Happy sense of achievement.

Open Door is closing at the end of the month; a shame, because it’s a beautiful studio.

Vast lunch at Goood Frikin, then home to sleep the afternoon away. I didn’t start The Time Traveler’s Wife after all. Instead I am rereading The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate, and remembering why I love Nancy Mitford so much I’d like to be her when I grow up. Her writing breaks half the rules, major events take place offstage, years go by in a paragraph, and yet the whole effect is acutely observed and effortlessly funny and will crack your heart in bits. It’s fascinating to me that she and Edith Wharton and the good parts of Dorothy Sayers and even Alan Hollinghurst and Roy Jenkins all seem to write in the same high-realist universe. Maybe I’m just an unreconstructed Anglophile. You think?

Peaceful evening; rain on the skylights, Claire funny and sweet. In the bath: “TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR, HOW I WANT YOU STAR. I SINGING!” I burned the zucchini orzo but it was still delicious. We ate it with cherry tomatoes and excellent parmigiano reggiano and a decent Western Australian shiraz. Cocoa and oranges for dessert. I’ve figured out how to use Nextmuni to save Mum waiting twenty minutes in the rain for a bus. Between that and the $10 monthly unlimited Muni pass, the public transport thing is really working for her this time around.

On my to-do list: return library books, have baby.

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