Peg is on her way to hospital. Terri called DK while I was out trotting Mabel around the Common with no phone. Terri thinks it's a panic attack. She has followed in her car so will ring her in an hour to see what's what. Meanwhile, have dug passport out.
Nine for dinner last night. Peg, not me. Perhaps nine too many at the age of 98. Bonnie said she had rearranged the seating plan about thirty times, one big table, then two small, then the one dragged in from the porch, and so on. Peg usually thrives on all this though, the table layout being her favourite part of entertaining, she might forget vegetables or gravy or dessert, but that centrepiece will be there, never fear. "Let them eat pachysandra!"
I don't know whether to go to a big birthday do tonight over in Southwold or hang around here by the phone. I would feel terrible in years to come if I missed Peg's last words because I was scarfing down chili in a crowded room and didn't hear my cell. Or would I?
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