det goda livet

You blow hot and cold on the merits of being in business for yourself, but sometimes you go to a mid-week desert blues show with a Danish friend, and as a result have one or two beers more than you might usually have, and you get up an hour late the next day, mildly hungover and harangued by the cat, only to take the executive decision to write the day off entirely, mooch around in the art supplies store for a while, then go meet a couple of friends for a lunch of roast duck over rice at a little Chinese hole-in-the-wall just off Drottningstorget, and afterward meander your way homewards through town with nothing much approaching a plan, while you think to yourself “actually, this is the good life, right here”. And as you meander, you pass that bookstore that you’ve somehow never got round to going into, except the evening you went there with another friend to hear some very old American psychoanalyst give a talk that no one could hear on a topic she couldn’t entirely articulate, and…