PublicBookshelf Book Club
Weekly tips on great novels to read.
It is Tuesday evening and October has slipped in silently, with turning leaves and an evening chill. On nights like this I wish my home had a fireplace, a hearth to sit before and drink in the warmth of glowing logs, while I listen to the beautiful music that wraps me in its reverie.
I have purchased a sound system, as the man at the store described it. My machine plays compact discs that sound as if I'm in a quiet club, with only the pianist and me, as he serenades me with beautiful music. I am mellow; I admit it. Amy and I dusted off a bottle of cream sherry from a Christmas long since passed. We are wallowing in our contentment, as the music of Frederic Chopin serenades us. No, I am not turning into a closet drunk, although I can't recall, in my prior life, an instance of drinking so much as a glass of wine alone. Does that surprise you? My prior life? Tonight I'm feeling that way. I'm not such a creature of unbending habit, am I? Here I am writing in this journal and it's not even Friday evening!
Six short months ago, I would have come home to a soiled house with a dying old woman demanding my attention, with an annoying bell, followed by silence that offered no opportunity for discussion or compromise. I would have religiously preformed my tasks, flopped into bed exhausted, and after a few hours' sleep I would begin the ritual anew.