Gotham Note:
9 April 2018

ΒΆ The first thing I do every day, after I’ve refilled my water bottle and seen to other business of that kind, is to read the New York Times, which is delivered to the door. 

Lately, we’ve been having a problem with weekend deliveries. I call the toll-free number when the paper doesn’t show up. The nice voice at the other end tells me that I can expect the paper by β€” and then, nothing. Once, I think, we actually had to buy the paper at the tabac across the street.

This weekend was the first Sunday problem. When I called the toll-free number, I was told that there was an “expired credit-card” issue. So I held on and was transferred to a human being. The message turned out to be erroneous, and I was told that my account would be credited for the paper. 

Meanwhile, though, what to do? How to start the day without the fix of worldly gossip? Not to mention the increasingly interesting obituaries. It’s no longer at all uncommon for someone younger than I am to have died. Somebody notable, that is. Obituaries are more and more like mini reminders of my own life and times. Then there’s Brexit: I read everything about that. It’s comforting to see the British wallowing in a commensurate bog. Mostly, though, I just skim the headlines. 

We stayed in on Sunday. It wasn’t until after dinner that I opened the door β€” I was taking out the garbage β€” and saw the paper lying there.

I thought about saving it for the next morning, but I couldn’t wait.

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