My guests who were visiting today went out to the
Great Wall. I thought I’d get quite a bit done while they were away. I had a cup
of coffee, read my emails, glanced over the paper, did a call or two and as I
was considering a late lunch, they rolled up back home. They didn’t need any tending to, but I felt
like tending to them. I felt like I
ought to stop being productive much earlier than I'd otherwise supposed I would.
This evening I had a dinner I'd agreed to a long time ago with a colleague to attend to. He had a a wonderful guest in
town who I'd met before. She’s a good conversationalist. I’ll make time to do this, even though my colleague always chooses places that are 90 minutes drive from where I live.
This is the new
traditional. We have duck, and there is
a strange verisimilitude of a traditional Beijing opera performance, with a woman, or was it a
man, as the tradition holds, who sang before a blue screen with shadows behind
her casting a strange, dreamy blue mood. And there were subtitles as Beijing opera often has for tourists.
“I------------------------------------------------------------------ am
angry.”
“He-------------------------------------------------- has cheated.”
As always seems to happen
on Thursday evenings I must duck out before the dinner is over and cut
into a hallway in the back of the restaurant to take a weekly call with a client. I adjust the seat, find a place to plug in,
check the reception and stare down a waitron who is confused as to why I am
here. In my mind I’d have time to
prepare. By the time I’ve cleared all
away, there are barely a few minutes left.
I don’t have my thoughts together.
The call doesn’t go well. Later,
when I head back to my table, my hosts have left. The show is over. It’s time to head home.
Thursday 05/10/18
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