5 February 2027
Friday. Apron five. U. has written that we were on apron four, and he is a day out of date.
Brisbane is coming, some time in the first half of the year. That is all I have been told and all I am permitted to write. A window. Not a date. A window is a very poor thing to plan a dinner party around; one cannot print it on an invitation.
So I have planned the menu instead. Something light, for the climate. Cold soup. A salad with ambitions. I have asked whether the new locker will be as cold as the old ones and been assured that it will be every bit as cold, which is the nicest thing anybody has said to me this year.
I have also asked again for a ninth chair. Northbridge seats six, Sydney eight, and I feel Brisbane should show some growth. Nobody has said no. Nobody has said yes either. I have bought the chair. It is in the hall.
When the date comes, I shall be ready, in apron five or six or, at this rate, eleven.
— B., your host
