The View from the Quai Voltaire

I haven't seen Friday since, and I have a feeling (though I know feelings are usually wrong) that I won't see him again soon. He's really angry with me, taking it personally, and, I imagine, disgusted with me. And the feeling (this is what makes it bitter) is somewhat mutual. What it goes back to is that Friday was raised among mothers, sisters, stepmothers, and stepsisters, the only other male in his family being his aloof, preoccupied father. Whereas the only female in my family was my mother. My mother often said of me, particularly as I grew adolescent, that what I as a boy needed was a sister, both to civilize me and to teach me truths about the female half of things that only a sibling can impart. "The hell!" I always replied, "What truths?" When I was twelve I checked out Emily Post's 'Etiquette' from the library and virtually memorized it. When later that year my mother asked me in a confidential way if I didn't think my manners needed polishing, I answered indignantly, "Absolutely not. My manners are perfect."