It's a cold, damp, misty morning, no doubt a foreshadowing (Minks' new word, not mine) of our east coast trip tomorrow. I'm in my pajamas when I drive her to the bus, hoping that I don't have a flat tire or have to leap to the assistance of a motorist in need on Mullholland. It's foggy on the road and people are unusually polite in the jostle of early morning traffic. Dotsie likes to sit next to me while a work, a by-product of my smart Aeron chair being broken. We sit on a dressing table bench together staring out of the window, Kuan-Yin watching over us. After breaking a butternut squash (the phallic one that's been sitting in my kitchen for two weeks) by throwing it across the floor ("there's your f-ing butternut f-ing squash") J served up a most delicious Sunday night supper - roast chicken and mashed potatoes with truffle oil, peas, sugary baked carrots and roast tomatoes. And all was well. Now he has bacon spitting in the pan, no doubt his evil way to win me back. I don't want to cave but the bacon does smell very good.
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