Armistice day falls on a Tuesday this year, which means that the office (and the morning metro and the usual lunch places…) today, the Monday before, was effectively a ghost town. I knew this going in; upon awakening, I made (semi-) grand plans that involved the acquisition of the long wool overcoat that caught my eye over the weekend (because at this point, I’m not even buying the “I just have to layer better” bullshit; the wind here is piercingly cold, and the nominal daytime temperatures are only decreasing), procurement of macaroons from the chocolate shop I decided that I didn’t want to go in when we passed it, and the purchase of a book that I kinda wanted but talked myself out of (three data points do not a trend make. ahem.) with the now standard refrain of “yeah, but how are we going to get this home.”
An ambitious agenda, to be sure, involving heading past my normal connection point and into the Marais district, then hopping back on the train to Rue de Rivoli (via Concorde, the aforementioned normal transfer point), and then walking, first to the chocolate shop and then to the bookstore before heading home.
Sloth, however, was to be victorious; having departed early, I hopped the train, sat down, and said “fuck it, I’ll just go home.” Which I did, though sushi was acquired and eaten, which somehow makes the whole enterprise worth it, or at least not a total loss, or fuck-it-why-am-I-now-engaged-in-attempting-to-justify-this.
Upon reflection, I should probably have picked up a bottle of wine.