an image from a Paris playground: a kid around eight, in a kind of eggcup thing that spun around; he'd got his bum wedged so far down he was stuck with his legs and head and arms sticking up. the eggcup was so finely balanced that it kept on spinning way past when the kid would have liked to have stopped; I was about to go and help him when his mother appeared. he looked like he thought he'd be there forever.
and 22/11: an anniversary. of surgery, which is not good. but also, in theory, of the cancer being removed from my body permanently.
K has apologised, as have I. we will need to discuss it sometime, but for now we're being nice to each other.
