Woe is me; I have caught Mr. Astor's cold while soothing him for the past two days. I don't take well to sickness; when it does fall upon me I tend to act like those elephants in old Tarzan movies that lumbered to The Graveyard of the Elephants and collapsed over. Now we are both sick. Received a cable for Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish starting off with Dear Battleaxe, and proposing that she come over and give a hot oil massage to Leopoldo. I needn't write what I replied.

Woe is Twist; it looks like we won't be able to attend our favorite gin hall for its Friday night of boozing and snapping. This will leave Mrs. S-F with no one to box her in. I can see it now: flailing he hands all around as the mutters one preposterous notion after another. We won't be able to engage in our Cat Claw Fight, where we claw at each other to the crowd's amusement (except for the stupid tourists who every now and then ask us to stop).

But--most of all--woe is KiKi. He had a series of minor seizures two nights ago and I spent all day with my arm around him. We agreed that he's not in paid, still eats, and gallantly still goes outside to do his business (although he has to be carried as his back legs are wobbly). We honestly don't know if he will make it to his eighteenth birthday in three weeks.

Too much woe this week.