THE HUNDRED-AND-TWENTY-FIFTH PAGE

The computer spent the next couple of weeks in repair at Albany where it was stripped of every program and file I had put into the machine over the years. In an amazing moment of candor, the repair person told me that it would be preferable to buy a newer and cheaper model than to remove the kinks that had befallen my trusty older and more expensive machine. Call me a sentimental old fool. I paid the tariff and brought the machine home, where the thing was a constant reminder that the wages of sin are sin.

I suppose I should have been grateful that there were no surprises in that week; certainly nothing could have been done via computer.

There was, however, something disconcerting going on outside my house. Several times a day, a scarlet Land Rover coursed up and down the hill on the road fronting the house. It was conspicuous as much by its frequency as its appearance. I’ve always had a fancy for Land Rovers and lusted after the possession of one, but they were far too dear for he of the Honda budget. Red, I also noted, was a color not often found in the Land Rover’s natural state. A parka hood obscured the driver’s head, so I could not make out whether it was man, woman, or foul fiend who slowed the car to a virtual stop as it approached the house and then hastened away from the vicinity.