And still just as well because toddler 9:30 person has unaccountably failed to show, so I'm her for ninety minutes until I have to leave for physio. But I made precisely six dollars on the morning after deducting cab costs, and though everyone is figuratively singing 'Why it's good old reliable Nathan, Nathan Nathan Nathan Detroit!' at me, and my karma account is in the black, I would *much* rather have slept in till 10.
Sleet becomes driving rain, wind threatens to blow umbrella inside out, and the walk home from physio drenches me to the skin. So I change all my clothes and have lunch, put on theoretically waterproof jacket under old winter jacket (which is not waterproof at all at all at all) and gingerly take the bike out into the slackening rain for my afternoon shift. Bring Metropass in case wind defeats bicycle, which it doesn't. So yay me. But when I get home and empty my old coat, guess what has slipped out of its shallow pockets? Why yes, that very expensive Metropass. Used precisely three times and gone. I swear I'm going to give both my old winter coats to the Diabetes Society: this isn't the first time a metropass has fallen out unobserved.
It's still done its magical duty, because if the long range forecast is correct, it won't snow until a week Saturday. But still- it might have come in handy for doctors appointments and suchlike.
Estleman, Dr Jekyll and Mr Holmes
-- provenance: someone's Little Free library. Holmes pastiche settles the reading stomach, but this was still a pointless exercise
Hodel and Wright, Enter the Lion: a Posthumous Memoir of Mycroft Holmes
-- provenance: some other Wee Free Library. This started promising, and more readable than Jekyll and Holmes in spite of those mistakes that modern writers
But then it got plain silly. Mycroft gives no evidence of a super brain that I can see. And- well, let us suppose you want to find Mr Gladstone in London. He is not at home. But we know he's a religious man, so we'll next look for him in all the churches near his house. Not there! Ah, but he's also a distinguished Greek scholar, so he must be in a library somewhere, and the most likely library is the Brit. Mus, And ahah! there he is in the ms. room. Now me, I can think of ten places offhand where a retired William Gladstone might be on any afternoon, and neither church nor the Brit.Mus. is one of them.
We shall pass over Mycroft In Love with the silence it deserves.
Not a clue, except to keep on with what's on hand. In these Latter Days, reading itself seems pointless.