Oh, joy. My father has just phoned to ask me to write a letter to the judge who will be sentencing my brother on Monday. Apparently, my brother has failed to fill out a form which would give the judge some background information on him to help make up his mind about whether to send him to rehab or simply incarcerate him. A fine time to exhibit a backbone. He hasn't got one when he needs it, and he grows one when it will do him the most harm. I told the judge it is my considered opinion that my brother is a few donuts short of a coffeeshop. I feel certain this is not what my father had in mind when he asked me to write the letter. I really disliked writing it so maybe we're even. I'll fax it at work tomorrow.
I've just finished reading Sheri Tepper's Shadow's End. I really enjoyed the shifting narrative perspective, and the story kept surprising me. I want to read her more intensely feminist polemics, but I couldn't find a copy of The Gate to Women's Country at Kepler's last week. I liked the light overlay of Navajo culture in this novel. Tragically, I am now out of small paperbacks to read. I require at least two a week just to keep me in train and lunchtime reading. I never go out to lunch with anyone from work. The rest of them tend to eat in, anyway, something else I never do. It doesn't matter how nice my office is, I have to get away from it regularly just to enjoy fresh air and solitude. Tomorrow, I suppose I'll have to sacrifice my lunch hour to Barnes and Noble, the only place within walking distance that sells books.
And speaking of work, I fielded a classic clueless question recently. A fellow asked for a fare quote to Nebraska to visit his friend. Sure, I said, which city? "There's more than one?" he asked, surprised. I laughed cheerfully. He didn't. I sighed. "Yes, there is, " I said with great forebearance. "Perhaps you'd better find out where your friend lives." Fifteen minutes later he called back to report his friend lived in South City. No such destination in the computer, so I instructed him to find out the nearest airport to South City. Fifteen minutes later he called back. "There isn't one," he said. "Ah," I said politely. "That will make it very difficult to fly there, then." He seemed bewildered. "Are you sure you can't give me a fare quote to Nebraska?" he asked plaintively.
I gave him Greyhound's number. It was the least I could do.
