After dropping Corinne off at the hall this morning, I doubled back to pick up Sister Olive Kirkpatrick from the Westerly Nursing Home. Olive's very old and a bit decrepit, but she's very sweet and she wants to be there so we all take turns picking her up on Sunday mornings.

When I found her room, she was all dressed and almost ready to go, but couldn't seem to swallow this last tiny pill. After two cups of water and a bit of apple sauce, the nurse gave up and said they'd try again after Olive came back.

Meanwhile, some other nurses had wheeled their mini-desks down to Olive's door, and stood there laughing and giggling about how tall I am. Less than a minute before we left, they finally asked me "the question".

"Six-foot-ten."

They started giggling again, a lot louder, and I turned my back on them to help Olive out to the car.

Sheesh. These nurses were in their thirties and forties. Haven't they ever seen a tall guy before?

(Yes, of course I'm mostly used to this sort of thing, but it seemed really out of place at that moment.)