If only she could persuade herself that it was okay to possess ability approaching Boswellian stature, she'd at least set out to write something compelling. Of course whether she would achieve it is another thing entirely. Looking back, she realized that a few short hours ago, mired in her misery mood, she would not have allowed herself to accept the possibility of possessing the ability of a cockroach. She began to reflect on Boswell's love for the City, one he shared with Johnson and subsequently with the world. Although, she was more than two centuries removed from meriting contemporary status, the idea that she and Boswell possessed almost identical attitudes towards the things that really mattered or to be more preceise that really seemed to matter. At that moment, it was not too much of a stretch to consider that this Boswellian affinity belied the chronological gap.
She too felt that when she'd become weary of the City, warts and all, she would be strong enough to own up to the fact and prepare for her demise just as Boswell had obliquely promised. In her heart of hearts, she knew that she dared not become tired of her adopted city. Given her proclivity for despair, the risk was too great. In the next instance, she spoke to no one in particular.
As long as I don't become tired of London, what does it matter if I become tired of life?
An essential question was still unanswered. What in tarnation was she going to write about? It wasn't as if anything worth telling was close at hand. Write about London, you ninny, she reminded herself. Instantly she felt better. Boswell would have been pleased, perhaps because their suffering was similar. Then she got waylaid. On the spur of the moment, she decided to make her misery pay off and began to reserearch manic - depressive disorder. It felt a little like pulling scabs off old wounds. If you have it flaunt it rose into consciousness but somehow it seemed incongruous until she remembered that just about anything went when she was in her manic mood and almost nothing was acceptable in her misery mood. She took the time to indulge in a sardonic smile and was somewhat amused by the irony although now she had no time to reflect. Her hands flew over the keyboard.
The phone rang and she jumped. Glancing at call display, she said"Top of the morning to you." What's cooking?"
"How's your article coming?"
"Swimmingly. I'll have it finished in an hour."
"I'd better bring some Rocky Road home then."
"You bet. I can already taste those mini marshmallows."
"Not to mention the milk chocolate ice cream," Allison replied. "See you in about an hour."
Allison and I had been together so long we could speak in code and understand one another perfectly. Allison knew that I was back from the land of misery, sloth and loathing. I have no time to chat. I have an article to finish. At the moment, I haven't gotten much farther than the title but it will come. Have no fear.
Did Boswell Dare Become Tired of London?
Lydia got back to work in a frenzy. Rocky Road tends to do that to one.
the end