I got up yesterday, did a couple hours’ worth of computer work, went to the gym, put dinner in the crockpot, went to the store, worked hard, and drove home.

On the way, I listened to a CD my mother gave me. She gives me sample CDs from lecture series sometimes. I was driving my husband’s car, which has a CD player, and it is a long commute, so I had the chance to listen to quite an interesting lecture on William Shakespeare. Specifically, the lecturer was talking about the idea that the plays of Shakespeare were written by someone else. labor day 038

Chances are, you know that this is often bandied about — that the Earl of Oxford or Francis Bacon or someone wrote them. There are plenty of arguments on the subject, but this lecturer brought up one which I had never heard before, namely: everyone would have known.

He’s right. I live in a town where all the musicians know one another (or at least within our genres; I don’t think I know Rampaige’s husband, for example, though I might). No way could a secret the size of Francis Bacon writing Will Shakespeare’s plays survive for fifty years in this context.

The lecturer claimed that the same was true for the New York theater scene. “Everybody knows everybody!” he said, and of course the theater world was smaller in Shakespeare’s time and place. With a grand total of 200 Englishmen making their livings in the theater, an attempt to keep such a secret would be hopeless. I find this completely conclusive.

When I got home, I learned that my car had died. It went mad, began claiming that it was driving 120 miles an hour and that its ABS was going out, and then simply wouldn’t go. It could start with jumper cables, but wouldn’t hold the charge for more than a few minutes, and would just die again.

labor day 039 I was not jolly about this. It is fortunate that I can work from home several days a week, but I also have two days when I have to got o work 12 miles away, I have promised to go cook in all these people’s homes this month, I have only just gotten back to the gym and don’t want to give it up, and I have rehearsals, classes, places to go, people to see.

My car was fine last time I drove it.

Here, of course, is the advantage of having plenty of spondulicks. In such a case, the car owner says, “Oh, bother, I have to call the mechanic,” and in a few days has her car back. I know that money doesn’t buy happiness, but it definitely buys car repair.

The other bad news around here is that Ivy, when I went to sew the front to the back, looks like this:

I do not know whether it is the front that is all wrong and must be frogged, or the back. Both looked fine on their own. They do not, however, match.

The cat is not bothered by anything.