Springtime in England.

The signs: bluebells abloom everywhere; another day of brilliant sun followed by torrential rain and hailstorms; so much energy in me that when I got home from the treadmill and the pool and found a message from a friend asking whether I wanted to go for a walk, I called her right away and off we went. I pick and piece, pick and piece. I write my conceptualizations in colored markers and watch Pushing Daisies for breaks. At 9 p.m., the horizon is still lightly gilded. The sun wakes me up early every morning.

My neighbor, returned from a jaunt in the U.S., reports that his three-year-old niece spent significant portions of his visit pretending to be me, having only heard my name and that I'm his friend in Cambridge. "She was extremely happy being you," he says. "Well, I'm extremely happy being me," I reply, "so I don't find that surprising. I mean, really, I think that she chose well." "Yes," he says, "she has excellent taste."