When I left my last office job, two years into my now nine-year stretch of living in Manhattan, I was stunned to discover that, believe what you may about who runs the city, New York belongs to those who go where they wish during the day. I am never more reminded of this than every other Monday, when my housekeeper's arrival sends me out into the streets for the afternoon. On Saturday, I managed to drop the most expensive thing for sale at Hester Street Fair, and found myself quite unexpectedly in possession of an exquisite antique watch fit for a movie star. You know the part in Baby Face where she's going down to the ship, after she tells her husband she wishes she could help him out of his jam with her money, but, gee, she needs it... well, if she had stopped to look at the time, I dare say she'd have been wearing something very much like mine. The repair should be easy (One hopes! It, of course, was no sooner home than flung on the floor again by an erstwhile guest) and I walked across town to a shop that sounded promising in the old-fashioned way that I prefer, so much so that they are closed on Mondays. So the only repair happening today was the sensible solution that I might repair across the street to Tea & Sympathy, a place I'd longed to visit but have never been less than flying through the days hell-bent on, I don't know what. Whatever it was, I don't feel like it anymore. Above, tea for one. Like the fool that I was born to be, I started at the bottom instead of the top. And a fine fool I was.