The cold is proving to be one of those visitors that just don’t know when to leave. I’ve done the dishes, turned off the music and most of the lights, yawned obtrusively, and yet it still sits comfortably at the table, sipping yet another glass of wine and telling stories. A week of pretty much anyone is enough for me, but a week of a cold is too much. I’m beginning to think I’m just going stay sick forever.
This Sunday morning, I was awakened by the building manager not exactly taking the Lord’s name in vain, but rather, performing an impassioned monologue wherein he used the word “fuck” with a fluidity and number of variations that was truly remarkable. Like a really raunchy and furious Shakespeare hero.
The cause of the early morning theatrics was this. Somehow, overnight, person or persons unknown had somehow managed to wedge the sad remains of a once-proud piano up the stairs and right outside the building’s main door. Equally mysterious is how it got there and how/if it can be removed. I can understand the building manager’s horror when he realized that this little problem is now his. He might want to consider just letting it stay there, like the cold. It makes quite a conversation piece. Or at least a monologue.