Hey, I'm so content. The artificial Christmas tree is back upstairs in the attic (Oh, catharsis!), Joni's just started up on the computer with Big Yellow Taxi ("They put all the trees in a tree museum. Charged a dollar-and-a-half just to see 'um."), there's one of those Danish series starting at nine on telly, political not murder, with the most lustrous, most voluptuous lady PM ever elected, and I can afford to break off from Blest Redeemer because every word between now and The End is clear in my noggin and Judith will break down in tears - as will I - at a moment I've worked slavishly to create over the last month and a bit. Riding a horse called music.
Went to Specsaver this AM, the most efficient human enterprise ever since the boats headed south and D-Day became a reality. People, in a chain, pass me from one link to another, never halting, and my eyes are measured, from left and right, up and down. One device confirms my left eye (the trick one) is focusing on a hot-air balloon taking off from what looks like Arizona.
Frank now sings Luck Be A Lady Tonight.
The cataracts can stay put for another six months and the optician - from Central Europe, surely with that accent - passes a thousand lenses past my eyes. How can he keep track of the sequence? What will be the effect of losing the cataracts? A reduction in opacity, he says. And I savour the slipperiness of that word, visited by a massive attack of smugness that I had the good luck to be forced to learn English as my first language. Who wouldn't be content? Just think of another word: lobelia. Two ls and ls are good for pronouncing.
Just finished with Warren Zevon and An Excitable Boy.