eggs...eggs...eggs...

There was a rosey pink dawn glimmering behind bare white trees, rather like my favourite Sydney Long painting, a seagull decided to walk beside me for a couple of blocks, more companionable than nagging for scraps, and instead of the usual derro with a boombox at the station there was a chap playing something very posh and very well on the violin (I did not recognise the piece, I was not taught music at school, only how to sew curtains, but I think I heard it in a movie once).

Friday was very, very bad, of course, one of the worst ever, but I got up early Saturday morning, while still dark, despite not feeling at all like I wanted to, and went off to my course, which was an examination of The Great Gatsby, which I enjoyed immensely. The discussion was robust, new ideas and interpretations were opened up to me, things I'd missed were illuminated and explained.
( more: eggs, eggs, eggs...and dinosaurs )