My appointment with the pulmonologist is Monday, and I’m starting to act like a little kid counting down the days and hours until Christmas Day. (I have never felt that way about going to the doctor. And I saw quite a bit of my pediatrician as a child. I was sick so often as a child that I named my doll Jones, after my pediatrician.)
I was in my cubicle working this afternoon, mostly on Statements of Fact and ex parte orders, and I heard someone come up from the mail room with some files. A supervisor said, “Oh, those go to Paul.” I heard him say, “He’s the guy with the cough, isn’t he?”
Steph has been at choir practice tonight, and that is always followed by pizza and wine at a restaurant in Worthington. Quite a few times tonight, I’ve picked up my tape recorder to try to start a taped letter to a friend of mine, but never got past the first minute or two. I had to keep shutting off the mike to cough, and it’s hard to draw enough breath to speak for any length of time.
All my visits to the pediatrician as a child have had one benefit, and that is that I am not squeamish about needles. I don’t like them, but I am able to get shots and have my blood drawn without panicking. (A co-worker of mine is absolutely terrified of them, which I find amusing, because he’s an ex-Marine. Mr. Lean, Mean Fighting Machine cannot stand to have his blood drawn.) The aforementioned pediatrician was very quick with the syringe (which I called the “shot pencil”), and generous with penicillin and gamma globulin for most childhood ailments.
My friend Robert sent me a link to eBay: A Royal portable manual typewriter signed by J.D. Salinger is on sale. The minimum price is $500.
Melville at the Customs-House 