A good week since April Fool’s Day, so no leg-pulling here. 2,500 polite and quietly dressed academics in town for a Renaissance Society of America jamboree, lectures and round tables in every hall and hostelry. Now a nicely-spoken tenured Renaissance Man could be just what your Lucy’s been hankering after, so an extra half-hour in front of the slap-mirror after breakfast and out on the town with my rod and line. From what I’ve seen so far, they’re not the fast-talking jet-setting conference bed-hoppers I sort-of expected from my background research with David Lodge, but so much the better say I: a girl my age is not looking to hook a flippertigibbet.
It seems to me that a nice fresh Abandoned Islands of the Venetian Lagoon in startling blue against the bold pink of my hunting dress might be just the bait for a steady unhitched prof, so that’s what I’ll be toting. Besides, matrimony aside, a copy of the Islands for every delegate would take us into a reprint with one bold stride: if that’s not enough to get a girl promotion, I don’t know what is. Watch this space.
