The senile euphoria has subsided some what, but my state of mind is alright. Whether I am physically well or ill is a matter of clinical judgment. Last night, determined to complete the dining room receptacle installation, I worked until 2 a.m. At 6:45 I awoke, thinking I might have defecated in bed. This proved to be not the case, but as soon as I got up, I had the uncontrollable need to empty my bowels; no chance to get downstairs to the bathroom. So it happened right there, at the foot of the bed, onto the heavy cardboard in which Duvinage had packed the spiral stairs components and which Tim had laid down to protect the new floor. My hands, my arms, my underwar, my shirt tail, the elastic stockings I was wearing, were not spared. And when I pulled off the soiled short over my head, my hair also got its share. I've washed everything, except the cardboard which I propped up from the floor to let it dry. Sometimes anosmia is a blessing. Although the house must stink badly, I haven't smelled anything amiss all day. Now the cardboard looks dry, left with a heavy pitch black stain. My pulse, as I sit here writing, is 84. During the past days and weeks, I've felt progressively weaker, when walking, especially climbing stairs, symptoms which I attributed to old age and not to be complained about. The ladder I ordered from Amazon.com is to be delivered Monday. My ferry reservation is for Nov 8, but I could come home sooner if you think I should, though if I can still do any work at all, I would like to stay beyond Nov 8. I hope you are well.