Yesterday morning I traveled into New York for a meeting with the company I'm working for. Many great things were discussed, including articles to be written, the future of private cinema showings, and the tendency of Bosses to say 'Yes... but also...' when they agree with you. Last night I was at an international entrepreneur panel discussion, which you can get a feel for by searching Twitter for #nyintl.
In between those two things, I had a free day in New York City.
I did think, briefly, of the museums to attend - the ancient cultures I could learn about, the priceless books that are stored safely in ornate rooms, even the modern and contemporary art on show; the performance pieces, the sculptures that challenge me and make me annoyed that artists get paid to do this. New York's a hard city to be bored in.
Then the sun came out. I'd left the house that morning with my winter coat, muttering in a very British way about the griminess and the inevitability of rain. Happy American Wife rolled her eyes that I never actually check weather reports, and told me I'd be fine. She's so good to me.
My morning meeting ended and I realised that, really, the only thing I wanted to do was read in the sun. In Central Park. It wasn't productive, in many ways, and it wasn't necessarily classy (I took my shoes and socks off and leaned against a tree, watching the world go by in between pages of wonder and laughter provided by Terry Pratchett) - but it was a jolly good time.
This photo does no justice at all to the beauty, but it's the best I could do. The sun on the buildings, and their sudden, screeching halt as they hit the park's borders, is almost magical.
I even found out there's a Literary Walk, with a statue of, amongst others, Robbie Burns!
And I ate a hot dog. And a pretzel.
And dreamed that maybe one day someone will read my book, sitting in Central Park and thinking big, big thoughts.