Difficult lifts

Back up to London again, leaving my Crackberry at home. I felt as if I had gone to work without my trousers. Into work trying to avoid seeing the area of concern spotlit and reflected inside the mirrored lift. I now have a distinct bald patch. I am picturing follicles leaping, free at last, like lemmings from my pate.

Discovered First Matie sitting in the desk opposite me, and we bickered a bit about who was getting the teas in. Left work at a little before seven after a funny meeting with The French Bloke, who also during the day had thoughtfully described mum's operation in rather graphic detail.

Off to see mum after work. She was in some pain and there is still no date for her release. She had eaten but this made her very uncomfortable. Otherwise in better spirits than I would be.

Set off for home at eight. Crammed into the hospital lift for about seven minutes, which went to the top of the building and then down again, stopping at each floor. One woman asking to be woken up when we arrive at the ground floor. Out, and twenty-five minutes wait under a full moon and the drizzle. Bus crawling to St Pancras where I was momentarily diverted by an unconvincing transvestite and a policeman chatting pleasantly before climbing aboard the Brighton train and arriving home at ten. Calliope fractious when I returned and knocking things over in protest at my absence.