This is what it takes to satisfy me: a thick A4-sized envelope containing the catalogue of music facsimiles put out by Editions Fuzeau. The catalogue is smooth and glossy, and no expense has been spared about it (rather like the editions themselves, which are on substantial, creamy paper, with slightly sepia ink; the bindings splay open on the music desk with whorish ease). If that were not sufficient, the enclosed letter made my head spin with pleasure:
Courlay, le 06 mai 2002
Monsieur,
Suite � votre demande, nous avons le plaisir de vous remettre, ci-joint, le catalogue souhait�.
Nous vous en souhaitons bonne r�ception.
Nous restons � votre disposition pour tout renseignement compl�mentaire, et vous prions d'agr�er, Monsieur, nos salutations distingu�es.
Les Editions J.M FUZEAU
Service Client�le.
I got a letter in French, you see! O, I know full well it's just a standard French business letter, and that, well, of course a French publishing house is going to send me a cover letter in French. But still. The whole presentation is just so frickin' classy (and the contents of the catalogue so enticing) I can barely sit down for three minutes without bouncing up in my chair with delight.
* * *
I got rather a lot done today, probaby because I spent part of yesterday on the phone with Riatsamum and Riatsadad, fielding toothy little questions like, "why did you leave your job at P**t's?" and "what are you going to do now?". Riatsadad, who was home alone when I first called, gave me the first investment advice of my life. It is shocking that my dad, a dismal-scientist to the soles of his feet and a pretty canny referee of finances, nevertheless brought up that wastrel your humble narrator.
Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned: I bought a cappuccino at St*rb*cks today. Desperation it was drove me there: I had no coffee in the freezer, and there is no drinkable coffee to be had for blocks each way. It was actually better coffee than I remember it, and, better still, now that I have been inside for about as long as I can stand, I am no longer forcing myself to be tempted by the "Join our team!" sign in their front window. That is a job which I have, at least for the moment, the luxury not to need.
ECG and I went swimming at the YMCA again today; I still can't quite believe that I'm taking regular exercise. My fettle hasn't exactly been improving, though: I cough up more lung-detritus than before, my face is a plateau of eruptions, and, having been happy about the way my body looks for years, my slightly pinguid middle now, suddenly, o'ergluts me me with disgust. What worries me is I probably shan't be able to stop with weekly swimming -- what's next? weight-lifting? forswearing my cherished vices? If I were ever to have a nice body, my mind would lose all confidence, all of its tenuous sense of worth. I can hear it pleading with me: I am master of only this one domain. Please, please, at least allow my this superiority. Fat chance, I say.