Dear readers, both of you, thanks for your patience. And thanks for mine. For patience is what it takes to write a book. Actually, revise a book. And I have very little, it turns out. Very little patience. And, yes, very little book. Having squandered months, it seems, on chapter #1. Actually, I find the whole thing embarrassing. But maybe that’s my problem. Who knows how long it takes to write a book? Too long, in my opinion.

Driving to Noe Valley takes no time at all. Or it takes a week, depending on how you view things. I am leery of driving in general. So I don’t drive if I haven’t slept adequately. I don’t drive if the rain is making me nervous. I feel under no pressure, or less pressure, in this regard. Which is good. I don’t like the idea that my neuromuscular life is slipsliding away. But it is, unfortunately. So I have been trying to go with the flow and just let things slip. In other words, I hadn’t driven in quite a while when I fired up the old Dodge this morning and headed the 1.5 miles to the next canyon over.

And what did I find? I found that most people are younger. There they are, queuing for breakfast. Queuing for more breakfast. Wandering Whole Foods in search of meaning. Or maybe in search of onions, granola and a bottle of Beaujolais. There they were at Le Boulangerie standing in line to order. I joined them, sat at an uncomfortable table and had my usual morning fix of macchiato and variation on a theme by cheese, bread and eggs. Lots of options, Noe Valley being what it is.

Jane and I hit the road in the month of May. And for 10 days I’ll be on that road without her. Which could be good for both of us. But it does pose challenges for me. Parts of my spine seem to be cracking under the strain, so I’m more nervous than ever about falling. Which is like being nervous about gravity. Which is like being old.

Osteoporosis is like calcium-eating termites, a disease which comes of sitting in a wheelchair too much. Or being old too much. My latest physiotherapist eyes me going about standard activities like getting out of bed and cluck clucks. Having noticed that my core strength no longer seems sufficient to get me out of bed the usual way, I have developed an unusual way. This involves a knotted rope. You have to admit there’s something semi-romantic about a knotted rope. Anyway, affixed to the leg of a bed, it provides something to grip while I lever myself up and out of bed. Will this work while Jane is gone?

Stay tuned.