Could NOT get out of bed. A man on the radio was reading excerpts of Hiroshima survivors' diaries. I'd like to get hold of that.

Drove out to my storage unit (adjacent to the Golden Gate Railway Museum, a treat) and there it was, my unit, that fine pine box, standing in a stately stance beside the forklift ramp. Then I found that I didn't have the key. Drove home, tore apart my room looking. The nice Liverpudlian man at the office said "Wall, we can coot it, I suppoos." I drove back and had two chaps from the warehouse cut it open. "You're going to love Edinburgh," they said. "Ye'll do some of your best drinking there."

Back at the ranch, my tempered-glass tabletop burst apart, when I touched it to the ground. I was gentle; it was fierce. It was warm, and maybe it had taken some stress between the pine box and the three UHaul rides. Somehow or another it spread its shards from the third stair, down the hallway, all the way out the front door, twenty feet or so. The glass-dust came out of my arms in the shower. It served me well, that tabletop.

On to FedEx to send out my UK Visa application. Along the way, I found my derailleur cable had frayed and split, leaving me with two gears to choose from. I chose "low" which didn't get me back up the hill. I walked.

Finishing all this, I rendezvoused with Pica Pica and donated some furniture. I gave Pica a good readin' chair; I trust it is in good hands.