My friend is practicing her signature, which looks like a cock and a pair of balls. She has to sign 650 tip-in sheets, which are to be bound with copies of her forthcoming book. I joke that her hand will be sore after doing all those cocks and balls.

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I bought a fancy lip palette. I.e. I'm dreaming of summer, wispy dresses, meandering chats with friends in city cafes, visits to museums on langorous days, gin and tonics in friends' gardens, etc. etc.

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I'm very tired and moody and even bloodthirsty. My period, I suppose. I wept when I read about Austrian artist Egon Schiele's final, unfinished painting which he called The Family, painted in the interim between his pregnant wife Edith's death from Spanish flu and his own death three days later at the age of 28. A man, a woman, and a baby, all nude, sit on the floor, huddled together in the darkness. The man looks toward the viewer, melancholy with resignation.

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