I’m feeling punchy. I spent the morning writing a letter of recommendation for someone who is perfect for the job, and I kept having this urge to write “he is perfect for the job, so just hire him and let me shut up already” but of course I couldn’t write that so I kept producing words and words and trying to make them sound like the results of sober circumspection. Then an afternoon of lousy business: all the crappy paperwork that makes up most of every day and keeps me continually on the edge of insanity.
Meanwhile, unreality hovers over us, as usual. Despite the fact that Eila has made another one of those eerie jumps in maturity this week where all of a sudden she’s more with-it than she was, she continues to have these odd moments of category fusion. I was watching Mary Poppins with her the other day (which I used to hate because it has nothing to do with the real Mary Poppins, but now admire) and when the ballet came on — you know, all those sweeps dancing to “step in time” — we were both entranced. Then
Eila: They are very good at that.
Me: They sure are.
Eila: I bet they do it every night.
See, I was thinking of the dancers, but she was thinking of the chimney sweeps. She isn’t yet ready to apply the reality/ fantasy distinction (at which she’s usually quite good) to the conventions of the musical theatre.
Not only that but we are short of wine, and I can never remember whether beer on wine is very fine, or wine on beer you’re in the clear. Both, I always assume, depending on your supplies and preferences.