To the tune of Hallelujah, please:
“We haaaaaave a table, we haaaaaave a table,
We have a table, a table
We haaaave a taaa-a-a-ble!”
Here, we’ll show you:
As I’ve expressed here and here, it’s a sad day when one does not have a table. And now I sit here AT THE TABLE with my cappuccino. (Moving to England ain’t changing that, oh no, nuh-uh — got me a mokka, a foam maker and I am ready to go to Timbuktu if needs be. Don’t try to come between me and my cappuccino.)
The landlord finally borrowed a table from his brother. I think he broke down after seeing us night after night cracking our backs and stretching our necks in the middle of dinner on the living room floor. We would sit hunched over, legs splayed in a V trying to scoop up salad from a plate set in-between our knees, constantly dropping green bits from our mouths. After dinner one night Frank said he had to work hard not to laugh because I looked like the Beast from Beauty and the Beast trying to eat normally. Visual aid below! Go to 0:27.
(Ignore dude speaking in Italian at beginning. No idea what that’s about.)
But Beast I am no more! Hallelujah!
We now have a table but — of course — no placement mats. So for today’s substitute, I’ve picked the “Money” section of the Sunday Times (no, dear New Yorkers, not the New York Times). Headlines include:
“Why it may still be better to give birth in Scandanavia”
“I donated some boots to a charity sale… and bought them back for £15,000”
And complete with a photo with the consigliere whispering into the ear of Marlon Brando as The Godfather, there’s the heading:
“Our savings won’t sleep with the fishes!”
Who says the Brits are so reserved? Drama and sensation amuck at least in the Money section.