I didn't even attempt Kimball, considering how cold and windy it was. Occupied myself with this and that, half-hoping Sherry would call to cancel. She did call to cancel, but lunch only, saying she's had a bit of tummy trouble. That was fine by me and I said I'd pick her up at 1:15, which I did.
We got there with no problem, entered the movie theatre, and saw fifty-five year-old Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Aside from Mickey Rooney's offensive comic portrayal of the Japanese artist, I greatly enjoyed it and so did Sherry. Katherine Hepburn was simply a beautiful young woman and George Peppard suitably handsome and suave. Actually, I had never seen the movie before--somehow missed it when it came out--and I was enchanted.
Of course, suspension of disbelief was absolutely necessary for a variety of reasons. One was "Holly Golightly's" accent. We find out in the middle that she was born and bred in the south, yet she speaks in kind of quasi-British, hybrid continental tones that's anything but cornpone. She's also barely making it financially (and the movie dances around the idea that her income is from prostitution) yet she has a wardrobe you'd kill for, perfectly executed makeup, hair, and nails, and her apartment is in a brownstone building that, even in those days, must have been affordable only for the relatively well-off.
I understand that Truman Capote, who wrote the story on which it was based, was furious at the movie, in which the ending is changed for one thing. I found the story on-line--the whole thing is there for the taking--and read a few pages. Yes, indeed, it's a different thing entirely; maybe I'll finish it later.
Dropped Sherry off and called El, who came over shortly after I got home. She hung several pictures for me and--happy day!--moved my new chest to where I wanted it, back next to the desk and in front of the wires. Slowly, slowly, my snug little place is shaping up.