On day two of my debauch, I read nearly all day, then went to a concert where something was fatally wrong between the first violins--and yet the Schubert was still divine, as Schubert simply is. And then sticky toffee pudding, sitting in a half-inch-deep pool of a sticky warm sauce that was good enough to make me want to eat it all with my spoon, long after the pudding itself was gone. And now, I will proceed to bed down with my book. Dickens or Díaz? I ask myself. Díaz or Dickens?

The brilliant thing is, I can't go wrong either way.

Thirty-two years ago, I was being a big pain for my mother. I'm glad that she's always let me know it was worth it.