From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
I thumb the rough, unvarnished cedar of these new Lincoln Logs, wondering if any lad will have a home left to build once the submachine guns have had their say. The shopkeeper demands a full $0.06 for a mere loaf of bread today, a price that makes my stomach knot tighter than the stiff wool of my Sunday waistcoat. If the boys don't make it back to Blighty soon, I fear even the rich heirs buying up Greenwich estates won't be able to pay for the flour. I flick the cold brass of the toggle light switch, watching the bulb flicker, haunted by the thought that everything we own is becoming as fragile as a poor butterfly.