A decidedly post-1947 complex of late-fiftiesiana has replaced the Mills’ death apartment. Hail the authoritative and striking Berendo Vista! Certainly we must imagine suicides of only the finest and most modern order conduct themselves here.
Despite my love of the Mills’, after having blogged about nurses a scant two days ago, I was hoping Kim would go with this story:
-because I’d hate to see another nurse, of whom I love collectively, whose mints on the pillows of the ol’ Hotel du Crazy are always fresh, fall through the cracks of 21 December 1947. That a blarney-smooching nurselet shall hang from a kookootown window, turning herself that particular shade of necrophile grey, is to be forgotten on my watch? Think not, dear reader.
