Whoopsie Wednesday

I know you are all growing tired of my excuses for why I am not nearly as wicked as I aspire to be when Wicked Wednesday rolls around. (Could this continual evasion of duty on my part be counted as Wickedness?  Hmm. Something to ponder.)  All I can say is, I am justly punished for sloth and inactivity, because ten minutes ago I was happily editing my friend John Wirenius's manuscript, Phineas at Bay - his tour de force sequel to Anthony Trollope's "Palliser" novels.  It's a hell of a good book, and the reason I know it's a hell of a good book is that I am now reading it for the third time (because I am what we both fondly refer to as John's domineditrix - meaning that I crack the whip on any inconsistencies and am a veritable scourge of the typo and the very occasional run-on sentence, and John, bless his heart, rolls over on his back, purrs, and waves his little paws in the air, he loves it so) and, if anything, I am enjoying reading the book more than I did the first time around.

The other reason I'm enjoying the novel so much is that John let me dress all the ladies who appear in it.  Not that he'd sent them out naked - no, no, nothing of the sort.  It's not that kind of a Trollope book.  But I begged and pleaded and made a great to-do about how nineteenth century novels are ever so much more fun to read if you get to relish a few sumptuous descriptions of the gowns worn by the female characters, and that, in all events, costume can be an excellent device for indicating the character and motivations of she who wears it.  So I was reveling in cobalt blue evening gowns, severely-tailored black riding habits with scarlet trimmings to give them a bit of a dash, and a truly delightful digression on the differences between handmade French lace and English lace of the period, when the telephone rang, as it always does ring when you're doing something you don't want to stop doing.

It was, of course, my husband, calling to give me the good news that renovations on our newly-acquired house are proceeding apace; that, in fact, things are going so splendidly that the contractor wants the new bathtubs, toilets, sinks, and vanities (not to mention the tiles - did I mention the tiles?) delivered by next Monday, because that is when the plumber is coming to install them.

Which is wonderful news, and I am thrilled that we have such a proactive and responsible contractor.

The only problem being, of course, that we've gone bathroom-shopping twice already, and haven't ordered anything yet.

So, Gentle Reader, like dear Groucho Marx, I only popped in to tell you, "Hello, I must be going!"