All of that roaring about in the night paddling my heart out seems long ago. Now I do things like the Author's Tea. The invitation was an unusual one. It was from the local library. Would I wish to join local author's for a formal tea being one myself? Why, yes, I replied. I would. It felt all very L.M. Montgomeryish. I was in a tizzy.
I wore my purple dress. Somehow that seemed important. Were the cups going to be nice, I wondered? Should I carry a handbag? How was I to hold forth and so on. As it was, it was very nice. A woman sat next to me, also in a purple dress which somehow seemed significant. I read her name tag. I murmured faintly, "You didn't review my book." She blinked. I grew bolder. "I sent Owen's Grandmother And The Little Black Box to you." "Oh," she said, "..but I did review it! Here let me show you." We both peered into her phone. Nada. Nix. Nein. "There has been some mistake," she said. She promised to queue it again.
I floated over for more canapes feeling somehow like the world had taken on a golden glow. It was a distinctly different paddle of the heart but just as intense.