On the top of my old-fashioned desk that some previous occupant of this condo must have recuperated from a sale of mid c20 office, or maybe classroom furnishings (kneehole, genius pull-out trays, coffee-stained brown laminate), I gather fluttery yellow post-its like autum leaves. The person who invented post-its (yes, I know, Google would tell me, as yesterday I was able to look up "origin of name of bank holiday in the U.K.") was brilliant. Most of my post-its designate books I want to read, whose titles I have found in other books or in reviews, and their call numbers.
Yesterday I stuck all the post-its, but one ("Warrior Geeks," Law Library, out till September) on my fingertips and fluttered to the library. I made a foray into psychology (Janet Malcolm, "Psychiatry, the Impossible Profession"), which is way to heck and gone through an underground tunnel below a cafe and a plaza with bike racks and a fountain; and politics, which is in a cavernous other older building joined the now-main building at the level of the latter's second floor. Roller blades would have helped, except for the carpeted parts, and the stairs. I have no idea what else is on the second floor; I mostly hang out on the third floor, literature.
About the British term "bank holiday." It was because of my London daughter who was away for the August long weekend. It's a bank holiday, I told my husband, who'd never heard the term before. I said, it's what they call public holidays in England. He still looked puzzled, indeed incredulous. My husband is French. In France they have Pentecost Monday and Ascension Thursday and Easter Monday--or vice versa--and Christmas, Bastille and May Day, and so forth. And in Britain they have bank holidays? Nothing but bank holidays?!
Running out of unread books is like looking in the fridge and finding nothing to eat.