16 September 2009. Sun through morning clouds. Tall and gloomy swim coach, with notepad and pen--a racing form, perchance, or the morning's ve-ge-ta-bles...
As in a play--Twelfth Night, where Malvolio makest sense of things that be, a lady's wish, prediposed o'er parchement gold...a letter, indeed, and all it might reveal...
"By my life, this is my lady's hand these be her very C's, her U's and her T's and thus makes she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand."
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