¶ On Saturday morning, the paper was late. On Sunday, it was so late that we eventually gave up on its being delivered at all. Much as we hate paying six dollars to buy the Sunday Times the day after we’ve read nearly half of its sections (they’re printed earlier and arrive on Saturday), Kathleen got dressed and headed out for the tabac across the street. She was back in an instant, bearing the paper. “It was right by the elevator.” (For some time, address labels have been stickered on the Times, so we knew that it was ours.) We settled down to read it in the usual way.

While Kathleen read the Weekly Review, I read everything else. Broadway actor Andrew Rannells’s “Modern Love” piece raised an eyebrow. I’m not sure that I approve of public figures airing their love lives in what is supposed to be a homely column featuring men and mostly women unendowed with rich romantic prospects. (Rannells is almost terminally cute.) Besides, the piece wafted more than a whiff of All About Eve: the romance under discussion broke up after Rannells got a part for which his lover had not even been asked to try out. They had both been turned down for it in the early days of their relationship. Rannells seemed quite upbeat about it all, and completely failed to strike the appropriate, contrite note of “just a couple of scrapbooks and some French provincial furniture,” or however it goes. 

Did I mention the time, two months or so ago, when the deliveryman simply dumped the entire East Wing’s newspapers by the elevator on the fifth floor?

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