I’ve just finished Alec Guinness’s Blessings in Disguise and am about three-quarters of the way through his second autobiography, My Name Escapes Me. In both books he mentions that he’d been keeping a daily diary since 1962, which makes me feel very slothful indeed. I doubt I'll match that level of productivity any time soon but I am determined to write more, in the hope that it’ll stimulate my attempts at fiction.
So, today: pleasant in the morning, thanks in part to last night’s impressive thunderstorm (or so I told Grace the Dry-Cleaning Lady as I dropped off two skirts and my cashmere halter top en route to the subway), but by the time I’d left work—hooray for half Fridays!—it was sweltering again. After bolting a burger from Wendy’s I went ahead and bought the sole bottle of Herbsaint (which I’d been calling herb saint until I learned it was supposed to be a pun on absinthe, which only works if you give both liquors their French pronunciation, ab-sont) at Crossroads on 14th Street, since it was the only one I’d found after browsing through five stores. I really shouldn’t have, since money’s tight at the moment and that $16 could have bought a week’s worth of lunches.
Shortly afterward I discovered another reason why I shouldn’t have splurged on the booze. I was in a good mood when I entered the Metropolitan Museum of Art, since I’d just had an amusing interaction with a mime on the front steps and I was looking forward to seeing the “Dangerous Liasons” exhibit. Then the very polite guard who was searching my bags informed me that the museum absolutely forbids glass bottles and alcohol, even if the bearer intends to leave them in the bag check. Thwarted, I decided to spend some time reading in Central Park, and then walk to La Fondue on 80th Street between First and Second Avenues to determine if it’d be a good place for my birthday dinner next week. I did so and reached the restaurant at 5:30, only to find it closed. At that point, being slick with sweat and footsore (my pink Chuck Taylors are fairly comfortable, but on long walks they chafe, especially when I wear them without socks) I decided to call it a day.
Came home, napped for a couple of hours, boiled fettucine for dinner, noticed that my a/c has given up the ghost (after days of alarming knocks and fluttering noises), read a bit more AG, turned on the ’puter, wasted time playing Spider (why are computer card games so addictive?), paid for the Moulin Rouge! lobby card set I cought on eBay, checked my bank balance (should be able to avoid overdrawing, though savings may be sadly depleted by this time next month unless birthday checks arrive), and am now typing up this account. Hardly riveting, and lacking the detail which is one of the charms of Guinness’s diary entries, but at least it’s something. And it’s all spelled correctly, which is more than many of the authors I read at work manage.