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Small losses
1. My 2016 daybook. Never tidy. Never never tidy. That daybook sat happily on a pile of books on the kitchen table for a month, and then I christmas-tidied, and now it's gone gone gone. Since month-at-a-glance products seems to have infiltrated all my advertising and since I prefer month-at-a-glance, I suppose I shall buy from them.
Found it on the bookshelf where I put the pile of books it was resting on. But that's no consolation for
1a. My scratchy Japanese nylon bathcloth. I bought my first one in 1989 on my first trip to Japan. Thirteen years later it fell apart. Bought a new one at the Korean store here but it wasn't scratchy; was indeed distressingly smooth and useless for exfoliation. So I asked the then Japan-domiciled K to send me another, and she did. But it wasn't scratchy. She sent me another. But it wasn't scratchy. I was very sad. And then came a third bathcloth from her, scratchy as heart could wish, because it seems these things are seasonal in Japanese conveni.
But thirteen years later my bathcloth has ripped in two and I can no longer scrub my back with it. And I was *sure* she'd sent me an extra, but when I excavate the linen cupboard, no matter how scratchy the cloths feel when dry, water rends them smooth as silk.
And now I am sad again.
2. Two pounds. Happy except the cause is a renewed biliousness.
3. The hidden house. This takes some unpacking.
Christie St, a majorish thoroughfare, has undistinguished architecture even when the buildings are actual houses. But a few doors north of Barton there's a narrow lot barred by a large bushy hedge with a narrow gap through it by way of entrance. Never noticed it until one rainy day in June '13 I was walking up the street with my bandaged hand, happily post-op, and came across the owner putting small plants out on a stepped frame to get watered. We chatted a moment about how the city-dwelling Japanese do just what he did, and I glanced through the door in the hedge to his small idyllic enclosed garden with birds singing in the front tree and a wooden two-storey house with comfy porch and gingerbread trim. Never did see him again, but on the rare occasions I walk up Christie I glance in at that homely little place.
There's a For Sale sign up now. I may hope the buyer appreciates the amenities, especially not being completely subjected to Christie's buses and delivery trucks rumbling up to Fiesta a block away: but I'm equally convinced new buyer will take down hedge and gingerbreaf alike and substitute Brutalist six foot square windows and stucco fronting.
Found it on the bookshelf where I put the pile of books it was resting on. But that's no consolation for
1a. My scratchy Japanese nylon bathcloth. I bought my first one in 1989 on my first trip to Japan. Thirteen years later it fell apart. Bought a new one at the Korean store here but it wasn't scratchy; was indeed distressingly smooth and useless for exfoliation. So I asked the then Japan-domiciled K to send me another, and she did. But it wasn't scratchy. She sent me another. But it wasn't scratchy. I was very sad. And then came a third bathcloth from her, scratchy as heart could wish, because it seems these things are seasonal in Japanese conveni.
But thirteen years later my bathcloth has ripped in two and I can no longer scrub my back with it. And I was *sure* she'd sent me an extra, but when I excavate the linen cupboard, no matter how scratchy the cloths feel when dry, water rends them smooth as silk.
And now I am sad again.
2. Two pounds. Happy except the cause is a renewed biliousness.
3. The hidden house. This takes some unpacking.
Christie St, a majorish thoroughfare, has undistinguished architecture even when the buildings are actual houses. But a few doors north of Barton there's a narrow lot barred by a large bushy hedge with a narrow gap through it by way of entrance. Never noticed it until one rainy day in June '13 I was walking up the street with my bandaged hand, happily post-op, and came across the owner putting small plants out on a stepped frame to get watered. We chatted a moment about how the city-dwelling Japanese do just what he did, and I glanced through the door in the hedge to his small idyllic enclosed garden with birds singing in the front tree and a wooden two-storey house with comfy porch and gingerbread trim. Never did see him again, but on the rare occasions I walk up Christie I glance in at that homely little place.
There's a For Sale sign up now. I may hope the buyer appreciates the amenities, especially not being completely subjected to Christie's buses and delivery trucks rumbling up to Fiesta a block away: but I'm equally convinced new buyer will take down hedge and gingerbreaf alike and substitute Brutalist six foot square windows and stucco fronting.
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