A Sunday evening sandwich, with Scotch

BCW

As the present discussion of another play was commencing here, I had entered what I supposed would be a holiday, only to find my house swarming with contractors in the emergency replacement of a furnace, tossing me back to the office and Whit to his spa in town, there to suffer lacerations to both eyes and an ulcerated cornea for the price of enjoying a bath, which obliterated plans for a day-long visit to the National Gallery with an old friend. 

This is nothing other than ordinary life, but so is a blogger's rapport with his readers - despite their human eyes.

I'm fortunate to have some leftover roast quail to toss together a sandwich this evening with endive and a loaf of rustic wheat levain; and instead of wine I'll give myself a sip of a treasurable Scotch a friend sent my way to celebrate his engagement. To be married, I suppose I should say. I'm optimistic for the Scotch and the marriage; the sources are quite sound. I'm even happy with tomorrow's posting on Coriolanus, and I hope readers will indulge a remark from this side. Even if the hand on the back of your neck must be your own, pick up your Shakespeare; and there you are.