I was feeling Joycean, as in The Dead.
In the midst of a hot, spring day, I felt the cold winds beat my back, hitting me between the shoulders with a fury of a glad handing salesman of Arctic goods. (ColdWare...or HotWare as we shall soon be calling it, thanks to Global Mobile Warming.)
Or are we merely Los Olvidados, feeling a bit Bunuel. Or will it be a madeleine of Chekov today. My eyes are slammed shut like Giorgio de Chirico's father's eyes...and the Greyhound buses and the on time trains creep past my recognition. I shall be 90 this year. I suppose I shall have to face reality now.
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