Many of my readers--thanks for the postcard from Zambia, Aunt Sally and Uncle Huck--wonder if I've taken possession of that long overcoat I bought from the high-end menswear shop (the coat that had to be returned to the plant in northern Italy and, when it came back still too big, assigned to the Portuguese tailor for alterations). No.
In the middle of last night I caught the end of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, a movie I enjoy. Steve Martin wears a long overcoat, more of a long raincoat I think.
And I've discovered long-overcoat central in Regina: the court house I can see from my window. I guess when you're admitted to the bar, job #1 is a visit to that high-end menswear shop, the one with the Portuguese tailor who's by now taken my coat apart, snipped off a few mm here and there, and stitched it back together. Lawyers in long coats, a stream of them, those extra-wide briefcases the size of mom's Singer.
I don't care that the coat, when I take possession, will hang in my long closet until autumn. It's forever, this coat--an evercoat, you might say.