This week's adventure has involved the plumbing in my old house-cum-apartment building. I do not own it, which is good, because the plumbing is in trouble. Black water would come sludging up out of the bathroom sink; then the kitchen sink refused to drain; and now both drains are repaired but the bathroom floor is now constantly covered with water of unknown origin. I feel like Jennifer Connelly. If only David Bowie were here.
Speaking of gentleman-callers, mine took me to the "Pub at Rookwood Mews" last night. I thought it would be an agreeable evening of beer in a dark wooden setting. However, it was crammed to the rafters with people in tank tops. We drank our pints with imprudent haste and watched a deeply tanned, silver-haired man in an open white shirt glide through the room like a ghost. Nobody seemed to notice him but us, and then he vanished. So we hastened back here and watched "She-wolf of London," which was much better.
Today's book: "Julie and Romeo" by Jeanne Ray. Everyone else read this about five years ago when it came out. I picked it up yesterday with the idea of having it for an upcoming plane ride, then stupidly started flipping through it, and now it's finished.