My iron has been busy -- smoothing wrinkles out of long unused scarves. My fingers are flying and I am grading like mad -- and just as happy that the super bowl is coming on. Nausea is rampant and hope that my ginger chews arrive soon. Nice fire going, that slightly eases my headache. Very dizzy --- driving is questionable. Sign. So much for independence. My Draig wondered why I was restaged -- it was from the patciularly nasty agressiveness of the genetic makeup of the fast growing tumor. I will kick it to the corner. I've decided there is no point in confusing my Granny who already doesn't know who I am (she's 97 and lives in London), though I am hoping she will get a chair so that she can go out of her apartment to the garden when spring blooms press forth, like the amaryllis on my shelf and the paperwhites that I am forcing in a jar -- the smell will be glorious.