Black, black, black is the colour of my true love’s belt.

The hot flashes seem to be better, and I’m not sure why. I still haven’t released the load of sanguinous material I’ve been carrying around for almost three months now, and the signs are there that it’s looking for a way out, so maybe that’s why I’m not schvitzing like a pig at a pin drop. On the other hand, I’m still waking up at night and lying there, not able to regain a state of unconsciousness, for hours. Ah, the joys of womanhood.

The laryngitic student showed up for her lesson at 11 a.m., actually able to phonate, which was a good thing, and we did some detailed work on Fauré’s Les R0ses d’Ispahan. Even in her less than optimum vocal state, we got a lot done and were able to work on nuancing and phrasing.

Dinner this evening was at the Buffet des C0ntinents, an all-you-can-eat place at PIace BeIvédère which is to restaurant dining what Costco is to shopping. The occasion was the annual Christmas/end of term party for Little Princess’ and Buddy Boy’s karate class--she was presented with her certificate for brown belt, which she earned last summer, and he was given a pair of white hakama pants along with all the other new black belts. Of course I overate; that goes without saying. At times I was bored, but otherwise it was quite enjoyable. The sensei had a tirage for door prizes, and Buddy Boy was overjoyed to have won a pocket FM radio. He was really aiming for the punching bag, but some other kid won that.

The Volvo is still at the shop after three days. I thought this was just a small electrical problem. Apparently our garagiste was taking it out for a test drive and the brakes failed and he nearly wiped out. I don’t get it; the brakes were working perfectly before we took it in. I fear that this time it’s going to cost a bloody fortune.

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