I may have to stop MasterB listening to the news; he seems to be adopting statesmanlike poses. What shall I do if he starts to brush his fur into an Osborne?
I just listened to Stephanie Cole reading one of Penelope Lively’s short stories, Licence to Kill. It had all the hallmarks of classic Lively – a certain dry tone, economy of words, acute observation and insight into the human condition. I want to write to her to say how much I have enjoyed her writing over the last thirty years, but I don’t think she’s on Linked In, and even if she is, I’m not.
There are a few fan mail letters I need to write; thank-yous to people whose writing has informed, entertained and enthralled me all my adult life. Katharine Whitehorn’s Observer columns made me want to read the newspaper. Clive James TV columns in the same newspaper introduced me to literate, crafted reviews.
If anyone knows where I can send the thank-yous, please tell me.
I am very replete; full of lentils and brown rice. I blame Penelope Lively for overeating. I wanted to keep listening to the story and the food was there. Ah well. Even icons have to have faults.
It must be about a week since I posted. Lots of work, lots to do, and finally this afternoon I have a clean kitchen floor. Celia and I went to a talk on Thursday about political rhetoric. The draw had been Guardian columnist Zoe Williams, and neither of us knew until we got there that ZW was double booked and Maurice Glasman, of whom I had never heard, was taking her place.
You win some, you lose some. By the end of the evening I was a Maurice Glasman fan. Lord Strathclyde, representing the Tory point of view was very like Boris Johnson. The idea that there are two BoJos I find alarming.
It’s Celia’s birthday today and I need to crack on with this as a glass of whisky is planned to round off a day that she has spent watching the marathon and not seeing her son or daughter-in-law running. Her husband is away in the West Indies, so a bit of a contrast with her birthday last year when she had a big party.
Yesterday I was at das Boot, aided by a lovely couple who dewinterised the boat with me. I washed the boat covers and left them to dry on a makeshift line. I was so tired when I came home. If it hadn’t been for MasterB I’d have been in bed in seconds.
Work done, there was play with Nelson the Labrador who went back to his boat to fetch his tennis ball so that I could throw it for him.
I’ve got the call. There is whisky to be drunk and a birthday to be toasted.