Today I pretended I was rich. I bought a copy of The New York Times (15 dollars!) and took it home with smoked salmon, cream cheese, brie, bagels, and a baguette. I spread out at the dining table and drank Prosecco and listened to Sentimental Garbage while massacring the crossword.
It’s been at least a decade since I last read a newspaper. Probably longer — what comes to mind is the book section of The Globe and Mail, which my dad would steal from work and save for me.
And it’s been at least as long since I spread out at a dining table. This one’s new to the household. I had zero claim to it but inherited it anyway. They say it’s 18th century French but that may be a lie. It is wooden, and huge, and has clawed feet — and, disconcertingly, wheels under the feet.
I’ve been browsing the 52 Book Club prompts for 2023. I’ve probably already failed the 2022 challenge. But I like the prompts. They’re a nice mix of vague enough to fit the books you already own, and specific enough to make you seek out things you normally wouldn’t. I tried writing my own list of prompts to post here, for others to use, but they’re all selfish, things I would want to read.
(“A diary or memoir that purports to be real but isn’t” — “Featuring a first contact scenario” — “Centres on a bird”)
I discovered a deli near here that opens at 6 a.m. That’s Michelle hours. I probably won’t go because I’d be alone and I’m self-conscious. But I appreciate the option.