This morning the boy got up early, shortly after I did, and I put him to work. We needed to sweep up my office after I took up the ancient rug to create a clean flat space to do my daily therapy workout.
Not only was he extremely eager and helpful in the sweeping department, we had a nice conversation and he stuck with me while I did almost half of my workout before asking to please do something else. His life is composed of those activities I need to do that I can get him to do with me before I give up and put him front of the set because I am not done yet.
Mr. S. is going to be a little stiff-legged at the big gala tonight, but cut him a break he's 444 years-old.
Meanwhile, I need to revisit the script to this solo performance I am supposedly presenting in January. The first gathering of the new playwrights' unit is on Monday and I hope to provide ten pages that aren't warmed over.
I'm sorry, where am I?
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