So then, after the magical evening I expected, I went to a place I often go, enjoyed a bit of bubbly with the owner, was told my tab was on the house, found a box of chocolate mice with ribbon tails in my purse –– a delicious gift, and came home to a care package containing Lord Berners' The Château de Résenlieu (sent by the publisher, with whom I enjoyed ice cream sundaes in the basement grill of his storied club, named in homage to Tennyson, yesterday, while he regaled me with personal tales of the family behind Brideshead Revisited). Who could ask for anything more?
While I didn't take any time off over the holidays, there was a silver lining. I posted something about reading Rosamond Bernier's Some of My Lives as a substitute for joining friends in Mexico, and a mutual friend is taking me to meet her tonight. I have been beside myself for days, although I've settled on a white sheath with a white coat (by Cozbi) and a grey stole, and the rings I had made in homage to Edith Sitwell, by the publisher of New Directions. I had hoped to gin up some suitable adventures by now but the only notable thing is that I ate escargots for the first time the other night at Balthazar. The man who persuaded me will likely win the Pulitzer for his next novel, but it's not out yet. A small tale, for now, but one I suspect will get better with age.