Dear Diary:


Here’s hoping that I can still walk tomorrow. My legs are horribly stiff. It hurts a bit to bend them when I sit, but I’m sure that the problem springs from my having stood in the kitchen for hours on end for three days. Let’s hope so. If I’m not a hypochondriac, it’s only because (a) I don’t deserve to survive the insults to my body that have been the hallmark of my lifestyle and (b) I never fear being ill. It’s sudden death that I can feel approaching.

Speaking of sudden death, I walked into the blue room about twenty minutes ago to find that this computer had shut down. It took a while to remember the flickering  of the lights in the kitchen not much earlier. Lights don’t flicker here, so I didn’t really pay attention.

Now that I’ve peeled myself off the ceiling, I have to admit that I’m crazy to think that I’m ready to receive friends and relations tomorrow. (Mostly friends.) But there is really nothing more to cook. I wish that it were a little colder (and drier) outside; I fear for the mousses on the balcony.

But the elephant in the room — the elephant in the room is the ghost of an elephant. It is the space that my ambition as a giver of parties used to occupy. I’m looking forward to seeing everyone who visits tomorrow, but if the rain washes my preparations away, I’ll just pop a lot of corn.

I only wish that I felt so relaxed about the electricity. I don’t feature life in a world without that. 

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