Rosa "Abraham Derby"

After yesterday's white-hot complaints, I emerged from the Bergen Street subway (having descended into the 2nd Avenue stop - hotter than hell is ever likely to be: it's the worst in the city - under a suspiciously chlorotic but promisingly apocalyptic sky), into an unrestrained, perfectly vertical deluge. I walked round the corner to Los Amigos, picked up some baby back ribs, went out again, took off my flip flops and walked home barefoot, past people cowering in doorways and one small child jumping in puddles, through clear streams of rushing water. By the time I got home my dress was sopping, clinging to me, my feet were very clean, and I was happy. The ribs were dry. This morning the air is cool, Abraham Derby has opened on the terrace, and Things Are Looking Up. The Mexican guy who was working on the front of the building yesterday (they have ropes over my terrace to hold a platform), had replaced the fig he had moved (the Polish guys who trashed my terrace two years ago would never have done that), and birds were actually flying, not slumped over, panting on branches.

The cat woke me at 5 am scratching his chin which is healing from an ulcer, prompting me to take him to the bathroom to clip his claws, usually a painless procedure for both of us. This time I put some disinfectant in the basin to wipe his back claws with (cat claws= dirty=infection in possible wound on chin). Oh, he realized, smelling the Dettol, I am at the VET: shit! And howled like a banshee. The neighbours now know the truth. The woman with red hair is a sadist and skins cats in the wee hours. One pissed off cat. One wide awake woman. So, I took pictures on the terrace and waited for my stupid stovetop espresso maker to spit out its coffee. I need a new espresso pot.