11 o'clock. I go downstairs to make a coffee and see that the post has come - three uninteresting envelopes without my name on them. As if by some sixth sense I open the front door to see if - you never know - a package has arrived. And there's a squat brown jiffy with the new Chicago Review. And only last night I sent an e-mail to find out what had happened to my subscription.

This kind of thing makes me absurdly happy.

(Not that one should make such statements in these politically correct times ... but has anyone written about how beautiful Barbara Guest was? Or do I just go for that kind of look?)