Last night I was at the Village Vanguard. You know, like John Coltrane. Well, not exactly. But anyway I was there. I was pleased to get in, because it was Saturday night and I just roll up at 7.45 for a set that begins at 9.00; I have no ticket or anything. I'm told by a guy at the head of the line that the door will open at 8.00, and I'm fifth in said line. And I get in. The set is by Bill Charlap and his trio. He has a Gershwin album in the pipeline and so Gershwin is what he plays - and Cole Porter, and Harold Arlen and Leonard Bernstein. It's top stuff.
The day before I was at MoMA and The Met by way of Bloomingdales and a bench on the edge of Central Park. The bench became necessary because of the amount of walking - of every kind - between 42nd Street and 82nd on the Upper East Side, and inside MoMA.
Bloomingdale's, I should perhaps explain, was in order to pick up a couple of items for WotN, and under her strict and precise instructions. Trouble was, they only had one of those two items. Stumped. I ask Sarah in the lingerie department if it's OK for me to receive a call on her shop phone. No probs. So I text the number to Manchester, and within no time at all WotN and Sarah are chatting away about womanly matters. Still, there's nothing to be done; there isn't an adequate substitute, apparently, for the item not in stock.
At MoMA I saw much impressive stuff, and at The Met I saw, particularly, the Diane Arbus exhibition. Stunning photographs. Humanity in the city. If you're here or hereabouts, try and see it.