Instead the library comes through with Americanah, that I barely remember ordering, so to the library I go to renew my card and withdraw the book. Open my wallet and find my bank card inexplicably missing. Can't recall when I last used it, but vaguely remember mid-week, at the branch a happy block away; and there they automatically cancel and give me a new one. These long work days lead to brainfry by evening, even though I *try* to be mindful at ATMs, as in 'I am taking my money, I am taking my card, I am putting money and card in wallet.' (They order these matters better, I say, at the Royal Bank, where you don't get your money until you've removed your card from the machine. The Royal has few forgotten cards.)
But Nigerians in Princeton are not a patch on whatevers in steampunk London, so I go off to Bakka to see if it might be there so I can have my perfect weekend. It is: $30 plus tax. No, enfin: not for a book I might find a grand disappointment. Adichie it is, I guess, unless I stick to GK Chesterton's essay on Thomas Aquinas. Chesterton writes beautifully. 'Of course, he's all wrong,' as my cousin said of Lewis' take on allegory, 'but such a pleasure to read that it does't matter.'
