Tuesday, February 09, 2010
On the crowded bus home, a young woman insisted I take her seat; thanked her and spent the commute wondering whether I looked pregnant or just old. Got to after-school care. Are you Rebecca's nana? asked a boy in a tree. So, that would be old, then. Still, there are beautiful things:
- From the bus I glimpse Maggie, framed by our kitchen window: she's standing on a chair flicking her hair from her face in a combative fashion and looking as though she's about to deliver a diatribe.
- The last movement of Prokofiev's Third Piano Concerto: in the midst of all the grandeur, the wry little passage that sounds like it's being picked out with one finger.
- On the way up the hill, Becca apprises me of the grave responsibilities involved in being designated a Jump Jam leader.
There may be a fleeting hiatus: the Rebs are playing gigs for the next two nights. Tomorrow's is the official opening of the Anne Frank exhibition at Te Papa, to be attended by various eminent personages (including the PM, we're told).
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