I met up with my attorney on the street in TriBeCa the other day.
“Did you get a new haircut? I thought so. You’d fit right in here, or in the West Village.”
It’s noticeable that the people most likely to pigeon-hole this middle-aged Scottish man as a hipster (even if he didn’t use the actual epithet) are solicitous recreational therapists and lawyers from Long Island. Clearly, I’m more square than hip.
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When I sit down for too long, my left leg gets all seized up. And being out of my regular routine these past couple of weeks has made it harder to regularly stretch my legs. I decide to go for a walk through my temporary neighbourhood.
Well, not exactly. Just as famous Americans like Justin Bieber, Pamela Anderson, Jim Carrey, Alanis Morissette, Neil Young, and Michael J. Fox aren’t American at all, a number of things dubbed as being from New York are from a different State altogether. The New York Giants, the New York Jets and the New York Red Bulls (née Metrostars) all play in New Jersey. Continue reading Secaucus→
One of the many rubbish things about having a massive haemorrhagic stroke is that the ever-present factor of fatigue, and the whole brain lesions thing, militate against a quick return to the traditional, full-time workforce.
Beth and I were walking along Brooklyn’s Hicks Street on Monday. As we were poached by the early July heat, and boxed out by a solipsist and her two massive dogs, I was moved to remark: “I am regretting our move less by the hour.”
I’ve been much exercised by thoughts of national identity this week. It’s been increasingly needful that I remind myself of the mantra I deliver to self-satisfied Brits:
You’re talking about a country with the size and population of Europe. Everything’s here. The good and the bad.