I'll be able to post here per usual someday soon, I feel certain. Surely. For now, everything is rushed, and I am perpetually tired. The days fly by me with a rapidity for which I can't account. The year's end rushes toward me with exponential speed.
Between "Downton Abbey" and "The Crown," my anglophilia is growing like mushrooms in the dark. My language has been pared down to a few quite rights and well-dones. It is ever-so economical. That clipped crispness is like a lighting bolt in a day of sloppy slang.
Know what I'm sayin', yo?
I will paint my walls dark green and hang drapes of the deepest red. Everything will be trimmed in gold.
It's a very British season here, old sport. Now stop your whining and get on with it.
But I love New York, too. It is o.k. I can hold opposing ideas in my head while going mad. Wait. . . that may not be quite right. . . .
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