Finally somebody is standing up for the real victims of this troubled economy — the literati who can’t afford that summer home in the Hamptons anymore.
On the one hand, I feel for the beleaguered publishing industry as a whole — how can I not? I rely on it for a paycheck — but my heart doesn’t exactly bleed for Condé Nast editors who can “now expense only five lunches a month.
I am amused, though, that The Independent felt the need to explicitly define “the period that constitutes the summer in America” — lest their regular readers in the UK be all perplexed.
Versus summer in Canadia, perhaps? Where it stops snowing for all of ten minutes?
Poor, poor Condé Nast editors. They’ll be left to eat organic peanut butter sandwiches on artisan bread.