Monday

Not news that it is cold today, but feel compelled (why?) to complain to all who will listen that office nearly as cold as it is outside. Oliver takes pity on me and offers use of small heater he has under his desk. Tell him that couldn't take his heater--I'll be fine. He says, Your hands are blue. Can only admit the truth in this and take heater with expressions of gratitude. Feel have misjudged Oliver. Plug in heater. Air coming out of heater smells like burning hair and feet roast, but is nevertheless an improvement. When regain feeling in fingers (accomplished by hunching close to heater and rubbing hands together) become very busy with work email. New keyboard--left by last inmate of office--is ergonomic and sort of bulbous and curved, so that it feels more comfortable in a way, but also like have merged with computer. Suffer fantasy that have become part robot and that fingers not actually moving, but am, in fact, making words appear on screen by force of brain waves manipulating electrons. (Feel that Electrons sounds official.) Am roused from fantasy by telephone call from Dave, who says that he's thought of something he could do. What? He could be a stylist.