Is it not enough that I must pass every morning by Pericles, hunched like a hen, hatching further malevolence? Must I also be made to avoid the other frightful cat hanging from the upstairs bannister, stretching down in an effort to scratch my salty pate? This is my morning ritual as I make a dash for my club to medicate my shattered nerves with an early martini after a breakfast fraught with indigestion.
It is always a difficult moment for me when someone at the club points out that it is my birthday, which unfortunately it will be in a few short days. I ask you, who wants to be reminded that one is staring at the precipice, or as my late father put it, the coal chute to oblivion?
I have noticed of late that the club has been singled out by the nosy media as being an establishment where too much drinking takes place. Who is to say what is too much and what is not? The criticism is especially rich coming from so-called social commentators, several of whom I know for a fact have not drawn a sober breath in years. Bah!
I always think I would have liked to have been alive in the early 1820s. It was essentially the end of the Romantic era, for the classic English poet.
So here we were in the middle of December 2011. Two of our children would arrive the next day for their Christmas break, but our new condo had no electricity and an empty elevator shaft. We reluctantly booked our family into the boutique hotel across the street from our so far uninhabitable home 10 storeys up.
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