Part Of The Plot
Monday. Overcast, as is the summer weather's habit, up at six-thirty, forty-five minutes after the alarm, to set out for breakfast with the head screwed on straight. If I'd checked it in a mirror. Which I did. It was. Really.
I did watch the “young” Morse on television last night, a completely unbelievable story line involving a serial killer who used opera lyrics to distinguish his misdeeds. Well, something like that. Enjoyed the snippets of Verdi, Puccini and the rest, recognized the arias, could sing along in Italian with most of them, but otherwise not the best reason to get to bed after ten-thirty when it had finished. He said.
Which means you'll watch it again next week.
Oh, probably. Ms. C told me my record collection’s mix of opera and rock wasn't as uncommon in Europe for people our age as it was over here, a product for me of an opera singer in the family. Indeed. Still, nice to have your head unexpectedly put into another era bringing back memories of a distant place and time.
Later. A bus downtown to go by the ATM and then walk through the City Center, thinking maybe I'd get a cup of coffee. Just one or two pictures of workmen being photographed by a news team while they were patching broken windows on my way to a bus stop, the idea of staying for coffee losing out to a bus ride home.
I did post the day after photographs on the web sites, but wish I'd also gone out to cover and included pictures of the marches taken before it turned dark, the small contingent that had done the damage being the least important aspect of the drama.
You worried people might think you're not a dyed in the wool doddering old liberal, but one who is consciously diverting the story from broken societal values to shattered glass?
I hate to admit there might be something to that.
Later still. A walk to lunch as the sun was arriving to sit at a table out on the patio, walking by Walden Pond on the way back to find a small number of the Simenon books for sale when I finally stumbled upon their New Mysteries section. Newly published, anyway, the individual paperbacks selling for $14.95. Amazon charges roughly $11.00 for the same books, even less if you buy one of their three book bundles. Even so, eleven dollars for a not overly large paperback? Where have I been hiding? Sleeping? All these years?
You haven't seemed all that upset about spending twenty dollars for hardbacks these many years.
Well, I guess I do think of inflation having increased prices by a factor of ten since I was first buying paperbacks by the box full in the sixties and seventies, which means one twenty-five back then would be twelve or so today. I guess. Some of us are a little slow.
Back now to plug in the guitar and run through this week's lesson, see if we're any farther along the path to enlightenment competence.
Lighten up Eric.
Evening. Hi, ho. Another episode of Spiral, the weird French cops, robbers and prosecutors program at six, evidently replacing dear Don Matteo. I enjoyed Spiral that first time around, found it on Netflix and watched the entire seasons that followed, but I don't need to repeat watching them again. He said.
More guitar, starting one or three Netflix movies in between, bailing out of all of them. Read something later? Start one of the books I started, but then put down for lack of interest, gumption, see if reading and actually finishing a series of Maigret all the way through may have caused something to stir to life?
You're descended into babbling again.
Part of the plot.