In recovery. I negotiated the stairs this morning like a goat on skates, but made it to Brother Andrew’s house without incident, despite foul weather. After 18 hours of alternating apple juice and chicken broth (Campbell’s, not home-made), my innards are calm enough that I am now drinking coffee, damn the torpedoes. The weakness is no joke, however.

Havoc resumes in the construction zone tomorrow, by which time I hope to be steady on my feet.