Your editor is writing a day early because, so Gott will, I am scheduled to fly home tomorrow. Before we leave I have to clean the place up for the next arrivals, my son and his family, and I cannot write and vaccuum at the same time. Note that despite being surrounded by Brits, I still say SKED-uled and not SHED-uled. I still do vaccuuming rather than Hoovering.
Spending more time in London meant more theatre, spelled that way by the pros even in the USA. The Cherry Orchard at our local Greenwich fringe theatre, a ghastly insight into the upper classes called Posh, Apartment 2012 (fringe theatre piece at The White Bear with lots of Yiddish jokes about post-atom-bomb life in Russia), a remake of The Real Thing at the Old Vic, still incomprehensible to me because I could not keep the actresses apart (Stoppard, you know), and a spoof version of The 39 Steps were among the treats on offer. But apart from the fringe theatres, London is now as expensive as New York for plays, so I am going to have to stop hating the stagehands’ union in NYC.
One piece of news for all of you including pre-subs. My plan to add a French biotech small cap to the Model Portfolio was frustrated because it does not trade often enough.
