The calm centre in the middle of the storm

 Well, I exaggerate, but it is probably expected by now. Having slept reasonably well with the Ottawacker progeny safely sleeping over with friends, we got up at a reasonable time and planned the day ahead. Instead of a tedious day spent catching up with my translation deadline, it ended up as a maelstrom of social activity.
 
First over was Mitch. Having warned not to bring croissants, he instead turned up with a pineapple. Well, you do, don’t you? Many is the time I have gone over to people’s houses bearing a pineapple. Or a rutabaga. Good to catch up, even though we only saw each other on Thursday. It’s a nice sign of our friendship that there is still plenty to say – and even when there isn’t anything to say, the silence is comfortable. This is big of me, because, as he left, he savaged my lemon tree, which I had grown from a seed and rescued from Mrs. Ottawacker’s attempts at pruning several times. It has gone from a mighty tree, standing in a pot by the patio table, to a small shrub.
 
“You’ll see, it’ll grow better and be a nicer shape,” he chortled, running to his car, hotly pursued by hastily thrown pine cones. “You might even get a lemon one of these days.”
 
After he left, Mrs. Ottawacker’s brother turned up to finish off what he started last August – i.e., putting brackets on the dining room table so guests don’t have to eat with the table on their knees. Surprisingly, he managed to finish it – and it’s good. The fact that it’s good is not the surprise, but I had sort of assumed it was going to be his retirement project.
 
Meanwhile, Ottawacker Jr., who had returned from his weekend away, was working on a cartoon for school (see blip – on the newly fixed table, no less) – and I was battling the linguistic odds with the translation I had undertaken. Fortunately, there was still time for me to cook dinner.
 
Tonight’s big thrill is a midnight trip to the Montfort Hospital. I have a scheduled MRI, which will hopefully see if there is a reason for my disappeared sense of smell. As I still have a sense of taste – and I am reliably informed by people who know better than me that this is impossible – we are checking all bases. Maybe, like my disappearing arthritis any time I leave Ottawa, it is all psychosomatic. Whether it is, indeed, all in my head or not will hopefully be revealed tonight.
 
A midnight trip to Vanier. What could be more exciting?