Harold Pinter died. No Man's Land is playing in London -- see if we can get tickets. Today is Boxing Day, whatever that means.
Last time we were in London for one night only, on our way to Athens. We spent the night in Soho, going from a cafe to a wine bar to a pizza parlor. Then we trekked to Paddington, to the train station back to Heathrow. This time, we're staying at a hotel near Paddington and this is causing that spooky wow, I know what's around the corner feeling. Christmas Day in London is populated by tourists (Brasil and Spain, Eastern Europe, Korea), pool hall in the China Town, Indian restaurants and Middle Eastern pastry shops. If you're interested in Tandoori, please make your enquiiries witihn.
I read Sloan Wilson's "The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit" in transit. I got the paperback at a white elephant gift exchange, but the first page captivated me and I kept reading. It takes the wrong turn somewhere down the middle, but the best and the worst passage are on the same page close to the end of the book. Tom Rath, the man of the aforementioned suit, delivers a very thoughtful speech about beeing a 9 to 5 man and working for money but living for his family. And then his boss, a genuinely likable workaholic and millionaire Hopkins freaks out in an Ayn Rand fashion: "Somebody has to do the big jobs! ... This world was built by men like me! To really do a job, you have to live it, body and soul! You people who just give half your mind to your work are riding on our backs!" And then he goes back to being himself.