“But what does that mean?” I asked Neighbor Ed.
“For us? Curbside pickup of retail!”
“But we have that already,” I said.
Neighbor Ed just laughed.
I managed to lose a debit card and a credit card when I was out hiking yesterday. I stopped carrying a purse when the pandemic hit; one less thing to get infested with novel coronavirus cooties when I’m out and about in stores, doncha know. I keep necessary cards in my pocket. But I’m never good with keeping stuff in pockets. Too many other things sliding in and out.
Replacing the cards is easy enough. And I have credit cards enough to take up the slack till replacements come in the mail, so it’s not as though losing the cards is any kind of privation or even inconvenience.
But I always get furious at myself when I do shit like this.
It means, I’m not tracking. And I’ve got to track.
Else? It was another fabulous day. I got very little in the way of meaningful work done because I spent as much of the day outside as possible.
In the evening, I came back and watched an ancient dramatization of The Forsyte Saga, chiefly distinguished by the casting of Damien Lewis as the villain Soames.
Damien Lewis can’t help being appealing even at his most villainous! Plus they cast a really unappealing actress in the role of his beleaguered wife, for whom it was very difficult to work up any sympathy. She did have a great wardrobe, though! I covet that red sweater-like thing with the brass buttons and its matching red waist-cinch. The nautically striped skirt ain’t bad either.
The Forsyte Saga, by the way, is how we know the Nobel Prize for Literature is a meaningless scrap of paper though a tidy sum of cash.
John Galsworthy, its author, won the Nobel Prize in 1932. The books themselves read like bad Dickens imitations and are completely irrelevant today except to demonstrate how writers like D.H. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf and James Joyce bailed out English language literature. Crossposted from Dreamwidth.