Caroline's record for consecutive bumps with the volleyball: 84
Generally I prefer her to practice outside, darling. But I'm not the sort of glittering socialite who cares a ton, one way or the other. I'm more intrigued she locked onto the sport in the first place. Six months ago she groaned at the thought of entering a gym (and when she did, she came armed with a stack of Nancy Drews). Now she insists on attending all Sophie's games and follows the action like an entrenched bookie.
But she also adores her cello. And baking, reading, writing, drawing, plus all things French.
Basically that girl is setting herself up for a very interesting life.
I went for a run this morning. You know, the desert really is glorious. Maybe it's cool and distant, maybe it's deep and unfathomable, but the desert is also humming with an energy which makes me bound around in it like a sloppy puppy with enough adoration for the two of us.
The cairns continue to come and go. Some of the best ones are suddenly missing. Some are still there. The ancient Norseman, if he really exists, must struggle between his poet's soul and his natural inclination to plunder the coastline.
When I reach this place along the trail, I always think the figure off to the right is an owl sitting on a cactus stump.
It's actually just a cactus stump.
But each time I pass by, for at least three seconds, the owl seems a very real possibility.