Beware the Ides of March! I said, “Julie! Don’t go!”

I’m on the mend. There are still pains in my gut followed by sudden rushes to the toilet, but every day I feel like I’m getting back to my old self. I haven’t worn real clothes since Tuesday, though, and today I promised myself I would have a bath and get dressed. Not yet though.

Because of my mistrust of my peristalsis to behave itself for an hour at a time, I didn’t go to the funeral of the widow of one of Canada’s premier poets yesterday, who predeceased her 15 years ago. We hadn’t seen Betty for a while, mostly because she got a little strange in her later years, pushing all but her closest friends away, but we had tried to include her in our life after her husband died. Hubby has set much of his poetry and has carte blanche to do so whenever he wishes. He even set it up so that Betty would receive royalties on her husband’s words whenever any of these pieces was performed, for which she was extremely grateful.

I have stayed at home, doing corrections to Hubby’s opera score as he proofreads what I have already copied. He goes off to Pittsburgh next week to see a performance of the play upon which it is based and to meet with the company director. He also revised the ending of his second symphony, adding 22 measures, which meant a mega project for me, correcting the score and then each one of the parts. That’s done now.

So, since I have done little and been nowhere, I have nothing else left to say. I’ll check back in here when there’s something to write about.

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