I have been of the last-minute variety ever since I graced the world with my presence. If my mom hadn't previously given the doctor strict instructions that I be born on the designated, "auspicious" Monday, I would've ended up being born Tuesday. In frustrated conversations about my procrastination, she cites this example to show how she had to push me out to make sure I entered with a fortunate destiny and she concludes by saying that I shouldn't wait but should take immediate action at the right time.
In my defense, there have been times when I have taken action at the right moment only to find that the required inspiration decides to wait until I've tenderized my mind and soul to fruitless exhaustion. Then, as I surrender guiltlessly to YouTube, inspiration has mercy on my pitiful image and comes to me at the last minute. My mother insists it's all psychological (her favorite English word). As I come across a quote from the author W. Somerset Maugham, I consider this possibility: "I write only when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o'clock sharp."
So, to test out this hypothesis, practically every day at 3 p.m. for the past few weeks I've made the counter with the stools in Alderman Caf
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