Am back from Immigration Court. Arrived for 9:00 a.m. hearing only to be confronted with news that the judge won't be in until 10:00. Annoying young blighter in blue pinstripe goes around the waiting room trying to establish Who was here First, and Who is Last in Line; everyone humors him, but endeavor proves predictably futile, as upon opening of courtroom, everyone scrambles to it in order of relative proximity to door. I win; thus, am first to listen to judge tell me to do complete opposite of what she told me to do last time, with some gratuitous Advice to a Young Lawyer, which makes me thankful my client speaks little English, winding up with the conclusion that Nothing Can Be Done Today, as DHS attorney Has Not Reviewed the File (why judge appears to think this is my fault, eludes me). Suppress violent urge to tell her, I Know, but I do Not Approve, and I am Not Resigned. (1)
In other news, the Infant is singing a tune which I recognize to be the bandits' song from Bremenskiye Muzykanty. Wonder if 20 months too early to begin musical training? Or, perhaps, too late? Own musical training limited to dim recollection of, at the age of 5, being hauled from under the bed to practice scales on the piano; my parents must have found this activity less than edifying, since piano lessons promptly discontinued.
(1) from some poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay