Brunch with my father was all right. I managed not to take things personally.
"How is _ and her friend?" my mother asked.
"You mean her wife?" I replied.
There were a lot of things like that, but there was none of my dad's heavy breathing/anxiety stuff and they took the "Oh, that boss had a nervous breakdown" thing in stride (a lovely piece of advice for not totally freaking my panrets out). It is a strange thing though to just randomly decide to talk about your life matter of factly, regardless of whether you are sitting with people who actually have any intention of participating in said conversation with you.
So it goes.
Then I went to the Met, and looked at my bookcases (they are late baroque, a set, and each has a motto, one says "Not Yet Famous" and the other "Work Conquers All.") I really like them, and I often just want to sit on teh floor and be near them, because they should be mine, but of course I just stand there like a daft idiot for ages instead, and then look at myself in all the old mirrors because my god think of all the lives reflected in them, and it always seems a pity that I'm in modern dress; I wonder, in that only child way that I do, if mirrors get sad.
I also looked at the new Greek and Roman galleries and tourist women asked me to take their picture with a statue. "Make sure you can see the cock!"
I also visited the arms and armour galleries for the first time since I started fencing and spent an inordinate amount of time looking at the smallwords and rapiers in a really detailed way. And it was strange, not to say to the other people there, in my way, "I know how to use that, really." It is a secret I carry around at the oddest of times.
Then, I came home and napped on and off while writing about it all to Patty.
Must wake up, write, eat dinner, do work, not necessarily in that order at all.
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