I found my copy of Gilbert White's "The Natural History of Selborne" -- an attractive 1st Penguin paperback edition 1941 -- in the litterbox. Alfie's bathroom reading? Smart cat.

Happy 250th birthday, Guinness!

Born in 1902, she taught languages - Latin and French - as well as English literature. My Complete Shakespeare, my Poems of Keats, my Essays of Emerson (five wee volumes), used to belong to her...a woman I never met, a distant relative, and her signature is on the front free endpaper of each book.

I believe (I do believe) the mouse I mentioned earlier has escaped Alfie's clutches. I saw it only once and that was weeks ago. I like to think the little critter found its way into "Adventures in Cheese," a shop not far from here...a magical land (one would hope) without cats or mousetraps.

I grew up in a milieu that might be rightly described as working-class. I learned my table manners, few as they were, and behaved myself. I didn't put my elbows on the table. I didn't eat spaghetti with my hands. Etc. I was chatting with a friend today, a friend who grew up in a very different milieu (I'm getting to like that word). Anyway, she said that in her family, a family with old money I should add, no one was allowed to blow on their food. No blowing on the hot spoonful of soup. No blowing on the hot piece of pork on your fork. Not allowed. It was considered uncultured. Never in my life have I heard of such a thing, so I'm asking my friends out there to tell me: were you brought up with such a pretentious, boneheaded rule? Of course if you were, and you still agree with it, you shouldn't fear to tell me. "Deloney, you blow," you might say and I won't get mad at you (I will). So pipe up, comrades, are you cultured or uncultured?

I haven't given or gotten a hickey since I was fourteen. I wonder if the kids still do such a thing to mark their territory...

This is a September thought, dropping like a bruised apple
into my psyche.

Serego Alighieri, an Italian red. Pairs well with my gluttony.