Three Paragraphs of Excuse

I’ve neglected you, dear reader, but against my will.  In the peculiar life of businesses there are occasional moments of crisis (usually self-imposed or imaginary), and my employer has seen fit just now to schedule one without consulting my convenience.

Walter Bagehot in The English Constitution writes that “most men of business love a sort of twilight.”  Bagehot had in mind an “intellectual haze,” but I’ve seen the literal twilight of evening here from my office window more than once these past few days, and the midnight dark too.  I haven’t loved it – which consoles me a little for the vile image of myself as a ‘man of business.’

Meanwhile, Orion is climbing down the sky again, the tomatoes fatten dreamily in the planter box and the oleanders explode into color.   The ritual baring of flesh commences in street and park, and it’s suddenly hot enough at midday to resent the sun.  There is no doubting the summer.


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