Christmas Past

Here I am with Katie on her Upper West Side some time who-knows-when. This time of year I keep my eyes open for discarded Christmas trees - the thought of some poor bugger holding on to the holiday spirit months past the sell-by date is morbidly fascinating. I spotted a brown, dried-out fir in Notting Hill yesterday resting curbside (I sms'd Sonent). The record is late March. It is the same in New York BTW. Perhaps this is a Big City thing: people hiding away not wishing to face the New Year and its stress. Who knows? but it makes me anxious.

The kids have yoga this morning and I enjoy sitting through their class before the morning school bell. I use the time to read and am half way through Lord Jim ("You shall judge of a man by his foes as well as by his friends . . . "). Sonnet has her Fashion Week and complains when she cannot get a seat at the popular shows. I mean, really. She's home late paying witness to the Next Big Thing and I plan to watch "The Haunting" and not the silly remake with Nicole Kidman, mind you (Sonnet refuses to watch anything with even the most mild tension). The '63 film from Shirley Jackson's book remains a horror classic and has scared the bee-Jesus out of a generation of movie fans. It is a rough life indeed.