The story: I was fabric-hunting in the Petticoat Lane district in London, where there's a street of nothing but African fabric shops one after another, selling 6-yard lengths of what's variably called "dutch wax fabric," "african wax fabric," etc. The marketplace looks like this, with racks and racks of clothing available for sale out in the street, and wax fabric storefronts on both sides of the street:

Since I seem to have activated my away-from-home batsignal, here are the SMS messages I've sent to Twitter in the past 24 hours. My tweets are normally friends-only, but when I'm away from home they're usually more interesting than the usual 'OMG where's my tea?' claptrap, so I've written a script to post them publicly in batches once daily while I'm gone.

Since I seem to have activated my away-from-home batsignal, here are the SMS messages I've sent to Twitter in the past 24 hours. My tweets are normally friends-only, but when I'm away from home they're usually more interesting than the usual 'OMG where's my tea?' claptrap, so I've written a script to post them publicly in batches once daily while I'm gone.

It was late, and our words were quiet. The house slept around us, snoring noises emanating from the various rooms."It's not so much about turning thirty," I said. "I've earned this number, and I have no reason to hide from it, but…"

"The round number makes it easy and natural to take stock of your life."

I whispered agreement. Conversations like these don't often take place during the light of day; they are the omnipresent thoughts, but the last to be voiced. First in, but last out; only after the chitchat and the catching-up conversations are exhausted do the soul-searching words tumble out as the friend's hand reaches for the metaphysical doorknob of sleep.

I write this here knowing that he will see it, knowing that I'll dread the moment he comes home, wanders off to his computer, and eventually spots these words, because it'll likely happen while I'm here. None of these words will surprise him, but it's the first time I've acknowledged any of them openly.

Well, according to my computer's clock, we just wrapped up the year 28. That was … eventful.

What's 29 got in store? Anyone got any ideas?

Well, I do: I just took my meds, and they're about to make me tump over, so my first Official Prognostication for my birthday is that I will now sleep. Deeply. Until six a.m., when my evil little Tenzing (who, by the way, the vet says is 14 pounds now) will wake me up because he's huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuungry.

Then he'll eat two bites and go back to sleep.

Obnoxious little twit.

Misty gets the best auntie birthday present of all: a nephew born on her birthday … the newest bald member of the Granade family.(*ducks*)

Congratulations to Andrew and Joy, whose first child Samuel Nathan was born today. We're still trying to figure out how someone as small as Joy managed to gestate an eight-pound child without, uh, exploding. (Does the C-section count?)

Of course, it turns out that little Sam scored a 9/10 on his Apgars. Nothing like starting a pattern of high achievement from the start.