Life in New York City

My local small bookstore, Shakespeare & Co., has re-opened. I ordered Peter Strzok’s book, Compromised, which has sold out and is on back order. And then I bought a couple of books having nothing to do with Trump.

Football has returned to my TV screen. And my life. I had a good time watching yesterday’s games until I got weary and switched to a Norwegian noir series. Tonight, I will watch my Giants, hoping to see some solid football from a lot of new, young guys. I’ve written up and printed out the Giants’ numerical roster so I know who’s making the plays. I won’t have completely memorized all the names and numbers for a few games yet. I will not be switching to Norwegian noir.

Aside from a couple of MD visits postponed during the pandemic, the only item in my calendar is for this Wednesday, which says, “No compacter chutes today.” They are to be cleaned, but I didn’t add the reason because I only needed to remind myself not to use the compacter chutes. I did not need to remind myself why.

Day by day, the full ramifications of losing Century 21 seep in, as if I’m in shock and am not fully able to comprehend the scope of my loss. Today, as I pulled out my sock box, I thought, “Socks! Where am I going to get my socks?” I wear colorful patterned socks. Yes, I’m sure they sell elsewhere but not at Century 21 prices, which are often a third off retail.

I found an anarchist roaming around a crosstown bus stop at Second and 86th. He was articulate in his pronouncements and consistent in his politics, although his efforts to approach some of us and tell us what was going on in the world were silently stepped away from. He kept nattering; he seemed to be deeply concerned. In between natters, he kicked bits of paper off the sidewalk into the street.

“I hope he doesn’t get on our bus,” I murmured to another lady. She smiled and agreed.

He got on our bus, at the rear. Throughout our short ride, I could hear him repeating, “He won Pennsylvania, you know! What an awful thing,” et cetera.

Zabar’s was out of my favorite Greek-type yoghurt. I had to buy another one. It’s not as good.

Tomorrow night I will watch the last episode of “The Yorkshire Vet.” Since Peter and Julian broke up their partnership, I fear there will not be another series. No matter; I will start again from year one, episode one. I am entranced by the animals these vets tend to, especially the babies, but I can handle all creatures, great and small. Again and again. My favorite ops are caesarian births. My least favorite are cases involving cow diarrhea.

The other day, I walked past two very little girls who preceded their parents up the sidewalk. They looked like sisters. They were holding hands and swinging those hands gaily. The younger one, perhaps 4 years old, must have said something to her older sister, perhaps 5 years old, who replied, “You’re so negative.”

 

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