I have not looked at the headline news yet today. I have not checked my email. I have taken my medicine, picked up a few small pieces of trash and since misplaced my handy-dandy white kitchen bag trash bag. Sigh.

Now, I sit with afghan-draped legs out in front on me on the sofa, back braced against the sofa arm, laptop balancing on my slanting lap and just enjoying the feeling of cubby-hole warmth. However, I will have to rouse myself for my tooth cleaning. They are always so perky down there, perky and cheerful and “Oh, how are you, today?” Well, I’m sitting in a dentist chair having plaque scraped and the inventory of my tooth/gum positioning being taken. Yeah, I’m fine.

But, of course, I don’t say that because 1) they have pointy instruments and 2) their fingers are often in my mouth. My main new fear of the dentist is the fact they check for spots in your mouth that might indicate oral cancer. One young man, barely 20, started with that discovery and endured the removal of part of his tongue and chemotherapy and radiation. That can stop you in your tracks.

I have embarked on a strategy to inspire (pressure) residents into cleaning/maintenance goals. I’m not going to put too much weight on my initial impression of the response, but think, maybe, I might have to designate one room the gaol room, nicely decorated with bars and soundproofing.

I would like to end with some jolly thought, but I’m bland today – and, looking back at these mutterings, I guess bland is not as bad as it could be.