30 is Ian Morson's Falconer and the Face of God, a historical mystery set in 1267 in Oxford. It is a good story, filled with great details of alchemists, Francis Bacon, the King's Jews, and traveling jongleurs (actors/jugglers/acrobats).
My kidneystones have been jiggling round again, and my right side feels like someone sewed a grapefruit under the skin, but I've only had one bout of intense pain, and hopefully this is just the irritated flesh grumbling about. More cranberry juice for me. At this rate, I've consumed the entire production of Massachusetts, or wherever they grow them.
There is a memorial service tomorrow for a woman I've known since I was thirteen or so, who gave me my first job and taught me to cook, who taught me most of everything I know about herbs and wild foods. She's been battling cancer for 10 years, and we both had chemo during the same time period this summer. She died Monday night, and I am dreading going to her service. I feel guilty -- I lived and she didn't . I know it's irrational, but I feel like no one wants to see the survivor when you're mourning the death of someone who was so vital and in charge of her own business.