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Nowhere I have to be, nothing I have to do: bliss!

This holiday Monday, I have our loft to myself, with sunlight streaming from end to end of the place and none of the usual Monday noise (rumbling buses, boisterous pedestrians) from the street outside. A year or even a week from now, I won’t remember the sweet languor of this moment in my life unless I capture it now. So here goes, a verbal self-portrait of a woman with nowhere she has to be today and nothing she has to do:

Just ate, enjoying every bite, whole-grain toast with hazelnut butter and blood-orange marmalade (an unlikely but delectable combo); diced mango and local blueberries.

Missing my second and third cups of black coffee, which I’ve had to give up as part of my new anti-insomnia regimen.

Wearing silver sandals, black T-shirt, crystal necklace and white capri pants with a drawstring waist and ruffles (which once prompted a friend of mine to ask, with palpable unease, “Aren’t those your PJs?”).

Listening to Bob Dylan covers by artists I’d mostly never heard of until I found them on the mesmerizing sound track of I’m Not There.

Just read The Sister by first-time British novelist Poppy Adams (more soon about this devastatingly creepy take on sibling rivalry in a toxic family).

About to read The Russian Debutante’s Handbook by Gary Shteyngart, because Francine Prose quoted a pungently hilarious passage from it in Reading Like a Writer.

Grateful that the sun shone all yesterday, an oasis of light in this damp summer, so that my husband and I could go hiking in the country and reward ourselves with brunch on a dappled patio that, for once, we had to ourselves because all the other regulars had forsaken it for the cottage.

Relieved that the brand-new digital camera, which went missing during our move and which confoundingly failed to reappear in any of the boxes where we thought we might have stashed it, turned up two days ago in a forgotten corner of our office, right under our noses.

Anticipating the Dylan concert in Hamilton on August 20, for which my friend Yvonne scored seats in the second row.

Wondering why it is that the moments I remember are usually the ones where something goes comically or maddeningly wrong, and not moments of quiet perfection like this one.

 

Posted by Rona

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