The worst thing

    The second worst thing is having to tell somebody you made a mistake. The worst thing of course is admitting it to yourself.
    As usual, I can't explain this in any detail. So I'll just mention that I took advantage of the warm day to visit Congaree National Park, where the mosquitos are still absent, to no one's disappointment whatever. A small child with three women held up his visitor's guide to me on the low boardwalk and exclaimed delightedly, "I found it!" I couldn't work out at all what he had found, but was delighted on his behalf and congratulated him warmly for whatever it was. I wish I could find happiness that easily, but then at that age I guess you find misery just as easily. Everything's close to the surface when you're tiny.
    All the walking was good for my ongoing nervous breakdown, kicking it down a notch or two. Resuming semi-weekly vacuuming did similarly for seeing and breathing. Hopefully waking up with headaches (my favorite) will become a thing of the past. Or efforts to find a new home for Harry the cat may become much more in earnest.