GZ hangers

Complications set in. A pink shirt, a French blue shirt, some black polos.

Mainly, I sorted . . . hangers. Many wire hangers are now . . . in the middle. They must go. I do not remember what happened to the shirts. Surely there were shirts. But I am focusing on hangers per se.

I think the shirts went into a suitcase. The shirt-wearer has taken the suitcase and left.

I do know what the problem is, and I will not burden you with my personal neuroses. Just remember that the first short story of my adult life is called “The Closet and the Money,” and deals with the detritus of the Second World War, that somehow wound up stuffed in a standing closet in my childhood bedroom. That’s all I will say for now.

But I do so wish I could move just ten centimeters toward Anna’s end of the spectrum.

Anna emailed me today and asked if I would like her to bring over some of her new hangers, which can be custom tailored with shoulder pads or skirt clips, to suit the exact garment that will hang on this hanger.

I would. So I thought I’d begin cleaning out my closets by bringing some crappy old hangers back to the dry cleaner, as I am not planning to go into the illegal abortion business any time soon. Surely I could part with wire hangers. And then I could practice color coding the shirts in my husband’s closets. This should be a fairly elementary exercise, as he only owns two colors of shirts.

The photo on the right is about as far as I got.

If you live in Germany or the UK, I recommend that you contact LadyButler. The alternative is Bellevue.

On my tour of errands in the center of town, I walked under a medieval passageway (between the post office and the delicatessen)–and came upon a woman about sixty, who was dressed in well-worn traditional Bavarian dress, with the long skirt, apron and bodice–and a crown of flowers. A luxuriant crown of flowers, all around her head. The original Queen of the May. She was seated, singing, and playing an instrument I had never seen before, a very large lute with double strings.

It was almost scary.

I wanted to go back and look, but I’m too polite, and besides, one shouldn’t stare at fairies.

The play is “The Birthday,” by Harold Pinter. It is Samuel Beckett light. There is too much human interest and entertainment for a Beckett play. No matter how badly it’s played, I’ve never heard anyone laugh at “Waiting for Godot.”

Nothing much happens in this play, either. It’s someone’s birthday, or it isn’t; two strangers arrive; the birthday boy leaves the next morning as a zombie. I wonder if I am suffering James Joycean déja-vu, or if I really recognize a boarding house, a mother, an eligible daughter figure, a stage Irishman and a Jew. Maybe it’s like sensory deprivation: you start to project.