In Need of a Little Cozy
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I was able to go back with Little Man when he was being anesthetized--he was a little champ--and when I came back and retrieved Tiny from the friends who'd kindly stayed with him and then sent them off to get lunch and visit another friend who happened to be at the hospital, I curled up with a slightly soggy PB&J, Helene Hanff (the bibliophile), and Frank Doel (the British bookseller). Tiny had fallen asleep in the stroller, and I needed something to distract me from the Very Bad soap opera that was playing on the waiting room TV. And 84, Charing Cross Road was the perfect bit of comfort and home. It spoke to me of warm cups of tea and the smell of old books and the crinkle of letters, and that was the perfect balance to the reality which was all sterility and attempts to not worry. Then later that night, after the excitement of finding out a routine hernia surgery had become slightly more complex and then having Alex's oxygen levels drop dramatically as he came out of the anesthesia, after the boys had been kissed goodnight and tucked into temporary beds, I curled up in the hospital's recliner and found myself in need of a little cozy. And that's what 84, Charing Cross is good for. A little cozy.