1. I work in SF’s tourist central, two blocks from the cable car turnaround, which is usually just infuriating but today, also inexplicable. I’m not sure how a person loses an 11-year-old page from his or her diary, but here it is, made weirdly poignant in spite of its shitty politics by its date.

2. I was still holding the page when I joined the line at Peet’s. The lady in front of me insisted that my favourite barista had short-changed her. “I gave you a twenty and you only gave me five!” “I’m sure I gave you another ten,” said my barista, flustered. “Is that it there hidden in your hand?” I asked the lady helpfully. She scowled at me. When I was a checkout girl in the eighties I was handsomely ripped off by a woman pulling that scam.

3. An update from my work-best-friend on the friend of hers who adopted a baby from Kazakhstan and bought a BMW and paid cash for a half-million-dollar house, all on a comfortable middle class salary: “she’s in Camp Cupcake!” I look blank. “Where Martha Stewart was?” Nothing. “She’s in the federal prison in Alderson. She embezzled $800,000 from her job.”

My mornings are not usually this entertaining.

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