In which Poppy confesses to a new obsession

with tile.

Yes, at the moment, for me, it's All About Tile. Tile 'R' Us. We be tile. Stone, ceramic, whichever, it's a stoned soul picnic around these parts, and it's not happening on a picnic blanket. It's happening on a bunch of TILE.

I notice tile everywhere I go.

In fact, that's all I notice.

Dinner out with Mr. Buxom? New sushi place? Music of the Baroque concert afterwards? Many, many hours of Haydn's The Seasons? You are nothing to me. I was looking at the floor.

I am not shitting you. Give me the slightest bit of encouragement and I'll tell you all about the bathroom floor of the Methodist church in Evanston, Illinois. If you really make nice, I'll describe the tile on the walls, too.

What? You need proof? OK.

As we were leaving the concert, I serenaded Mr. Buxom with the following:

What tile is this, that's laid to rest
Upon my bathroom flo-o-r
Is this the prettiest I could pick,
or should I have shopped some more?

Mr. Buxom assures me the concert was excellent.

I'm so glad the ticket money wasn't wasted.