Daily Blague

How typical: Dubya slept through Saddam's hanging. The want of respect is staggering, but we've had plenty of opportunity to get used to staggering arrogance in the White House. It's not that the Iraqi tyrant himself deserved respect so much as the moment of his execution that did. It was incumbent upon the President to witness and event of such symbolic importance (not so symbolic for the hanged man). But this president sleeps on autopilot.

Once I got past that headline this morning, I jumped to the Book Review and clapped my hands with delight: a collection of short stories by Colm Tóibín. I snatched a Crawford Doyle Booksellers bookmark from the jug and carried it with me to breakfast across the street. At the stroke of ten, I called the bookshop and secured a copy of Mothers and Sons, as the collection is titled.

Walking over to Madison Avenue, I was oppressed by the utterly leaden sky. The side streets were deserted. Ordinarily, it's a pleasure to be in the emptied city, but this morning it felt sinister. Shadows were nowhere; shadow was everywhere. (In the afternoon, the sun eventually peeped out.)

Then I went to Eli's, where I bought a few provisions for the coming days. I could have kicked myself when the cashier rang up the loaf of stollen that I most imprudently tossed into my basket even though it didn't carry a price tag. Twenty-five dollars! Half that would have been ample. I can't say I didn't see it coming. Well, call it a Christmas treat.

Kathleen is at the office, cleaning up. Not just organizing piles of paper, but dusting. With Pledge. The state of Kathleen's office is a scandal at the best of times, but "she knows where everything is." Except that, lately, she doesn't.

While Kathleen was out, and I, too, was dusting (as is my Saturday wont), I listened to Mozart's Messiah, K 572, and then to Bach's Christmas Oratorio. Do I have any energy left for writing a few Christmas cards?