"Raindrops keep falling on my head." How surprisingly true those words really are, I reflected, standing groggily before the bathroom sink this morning, amazed by the perspicacity of lyricist B J Thomas, until I realized that there was actually a leak in the ceiling above me, from which rusty-colored water bubbles were dribbling forth like beads of sweat upon the brow of a cheapskate who suddenly and very grudgingly recognizes that he must call an expensive plumber.
Of course, I rationalized, I could always adapt this structural defect into one of those soothing, indoor Japanese waterfalls. After all, I've always wanted such a piece of aquatic art, and, who knows, perhaps the charges for the leak might even appear on my upstairs neighbor's utility bill, not mine. And to think that fashionable Manhattan designers earn top dollar for experiencing these kinds of interior decorating whims and fancies.
