Self-absorbed silence

My self-absorption has deepened this week, hence the lack of posts. It isn't that I'm not paying attention to the outer world, though. I'm aware of the reports of the massive thwarted bomb attack in London and attuned to the confusion about the fact that this threat was followed for 8 months before being acted upon. I'm also laughing, like everyone else, about the official protestations that this is not about a war of religions or civilizations. Of course it is. Ours is the civilization that would like to sop up all remaining fossil energy to support our ridiculous lifestyle and, before that need, nothing is sacred. Including lots of stuff that is sacred to other large portions of the world population.

I've also spent a bit of time dwelling on my attitude towards alcohol. Did I have a bit too much glee when I learned that "the mother of all liquor stores" is being opened just up the street from me? It's a funny cultural thing I guess that if I lived somewhere like Detroit or Buffalo, I'd probably greet that news with a fair bit of consternation, thinking of drunks, guns, robberies and mayhem. Here, in Canada, we greet the news with celebration. Next to a city square with fountains, sycamore trees, and chess sets on old stone tables, there are few things that bring more pedestrian life to an urban centre than a huge booze boutique. My glee. My dear wife pointed out to me, on Sunday, that my worrying about what I would drink on Monday (knowing that the liquor stores would be closed for a stat holiday) was probably not a very good sign. I think that perhaps she overreacted (after all, my worries were precipitated by her announcing that she was taking all of the booze out of our house to a party that she was going to the next day. I'd declined the invitation in order to get some quiet work done around the house but felt I might deserve a cold beer at the end of the day). But I don't always know what's good for me.

I just had lunch with my wonderful wife. We shared a couple of glasses of wine, and marvelled over the time dependence of alcohol tolerance. In the late evening, we can easily knock off two or even three thimbles of scotch without feeling a thing. A single glass of red with lunch can leave us slithering around on our seats, groping one another under the table. (ok. I groped. She stopped me in my tracks with a smoldering stare. But she was tipsy.)

We were celebrating another small rung on the long ladder of literary success. I've had 'the call' from a publisher. This is still a long way from a happening thing (this point driven home by the frequent use of words like 'promotability', 'media savvy' and 'presentable' in connection with my grisled old visage). But it is a necessary step and one that takes me to a slightly higher altitude from which I could be dropped and smashed like a fragile old quail egg with a beard. Yes. I know. Writing like that is neither promotable nor presentable.

Eo ipso the wine at lunch.