Seized by fit of domesticity, have achieved French bread ("not-exactly-baguettes") and something called Irish Car Bomb Cake, which deserves to be made for the name alone. Obviously, domesticity requiring copious use of Guinness as cake ingredient much preferable to the kind requiring moving all the furniture and scrubbing the corners.
Have been made aware of music ban; occurs to me that appropriate response would be re-working of "Rock the Casbah" with adjustment for correct religion. Am too lazy to attempt.
Husband just called from hospital (where - a reminder - he is a doctor, not a patient, and, B"H, doing fine). On being reminded that It is My Mother's Birthday, silence ensues, followed by cautious question: How Old is She? I reply, Sixty-Two; am sharply corrected by Mother that it is Sixty-One. Whereupon Husband proceeds to relate hair-raising tale of 59-year-old patient, whose last period was sometime in 1991, and who is now Pregnant following expensive and tortuous procedures involving hormone injections and other people's eggs, and now must be on Bedrest. As if above were not enough, Husband supplies that she had three pregnancy terminations previously; hanging on to last shred of hope, ask, On Purpose? Answer: yes. Husband concludes by saying He Feels like Hitting her every Time he Walks Past. Regret to find myself in sympathy with this highly unprofessional Attitude.
Reassure Husband that nothing of the sort will be forthcoming from Mother and hang up. Ensuing attempt to imagine arrival of young sibling boggles mind into incoherency. Restore shattered equanimity by resorting to remains of Irish Car Bomb Cake and new-ish Akunin novel brought by Father-in-Law.