I'm teaching a class for teachers in York. I am tired already. I'd rather be home or in Florida but then I feel guilty about not wanting to be here. There are a lot of out of work people and here I am with an opportunity to work a second job. Shut up and do it. That's me talking to myself.

I've taught this class a number of times, eight to be exact, or this is the eighth, and it's still funny how I forget things and then I remember them too late, and then I try to interject, and then it's over. I figured out how many sessions there are and I'm now one ninth of the way done.

Frank McCourt died. He was an English teacher in New York City for years. He retired after 30 years of teaching and then wrote three books based on his life. Angela's Ashes was the most famous one. It was made into a movie. It's weird. He taught writing all those years and he then became a writer. We was born in the US but then went back to Ireland and then came back to the US. He was quite the rebel. He inadvertently taught, he was hired to take the place of a woman, and she just quit. So he ends up being throws to the dogs, so to speak, and learned his way as he went.