7 ish: Open the shutters to let the light in. Stand barefoot on the terrace and look at the day. Cup of tea in bed. Room service is great here. Reading. At the moment it’s a Barry Unsworth season. I’m now reading The Song of Kings by him. Before that I read The Ruby in Her Navel, which R is now also reading, and before that we both read A Land of Marvels, his latest. All three novels have been brilliant – I think I like The Ruby in Her Navel best – set in 13th Century Sicily where Moslems, Christians, and Jews all lived and uneasily shared power – but it's not a dry read - it's also a pacy story with good characters, intrigue and threat - witty, rich, wise and, once it gets moving, unputdownable. The other two are also great – if you’re looking for a really good read with depth, wit and historical richness – Unsworth is your man. He won the Booker with Sacred Hunger - and I don't know if I read it - does anybody remember reading it? Have you read any of his books?
I'd be interested to hear what you thought. I used to read obsessively like this when I was a kid – following one author until I’d had enough . . . I love it and wonder when and why I unlearned it. It’s good to remind myself that the first rule of reading, known by me as a ten year-old, is to only read for pleasure, for adventure, escape, a new journey.
8ish: Get out of bed. Shower. Dress, etc. Remember to check inside my shoes to make sure that there are no scoloptery thingies or any other creatures in them. You can’t be too careful in the country. Talking of wildlife, we saw another unbelieveable bug the other day.
8ish: Get out of bed. Shower. Dress, etc. Remember to check inside my shoes to make sure that there are no scoloptery thingies or any other creatures in them. You can’t be too careful in the country. Talking of wildlife, we saw another unbelieveable bug the other day.
Here’s a photo of 
it. I looked it up in the European insect book
it. I looked it up in the European insect book and it was too horrible to be in there. I’m planning on sending the photo to the Natural History Website for identification. But maybe there are some French people reading this who know what it is. Let me know. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that its Latin name means Devil Spawn or somesuch.
8.30ish: Breakfast with R at the baronial table. Stare out of the window at the view. Green trees, Swallows dipping down over the treetops. Mozzies already tapping at the window pane. On good days, say Wow,another wonderful day in Paradise [ you have to say this in an Australian accent.] On bad days, say nothing at all - but think, where are all the people, sob?
8.45 ish. Just at the moment we are having to force pills down the cat’s throat – a process that involves me and R first trying to catch the cat, to wrap her in a towel, avoid getting bitten or scratched, stop her spitting out the pill – all the while arguing with each other about the best way to do it. We never
agree – me hard cop, him soft cop, but this doesn’t work with cats. Cleo’s illness has already cost us the equivalent of a week’s holiday in Paris – vets in France are just as rich as those in the UK. It has also stretched our [to be scrupulously fair, R’s] French, through extremely complex discussions and incomprehensible instructions. Still, Cleo is an old cat – she’s 15 – which is the equivalent of 80 odd years - the average lifespan of a cat – and we would like to get her through this year with us, even though she is a bloody nuisance. She would probably be happy to stay – no language problems, no other cats within yowling distance, fast moving lizards on the terrace and French catfood – which, of course is far better than the English equivalent. But we humans hope she makes it back to dear old Blighty with us. If not, it’ll be like that Rupert Brooke poem: there’ll have to be ‘Some [cat-sized] corner of a foreign field, that is forever England.’
9.00 ish. Sorry, this day is going extremely slowly.
Next blog: Idle buggers forced to get down to some proper work.
8.30ish: Breakfast with R at the baronial table. Stare out of the window at the view. Green trees, Swallows dipping down over the treetops. Mozzies already tapping at the window pane. On good days, say Wow,another wonderful day in Paradise [ you have to say this in an Australian accent.] On bad days, say nothing at all - but think, where are all the people, sob?
8.45 ish. Just at the moment we are having to force pills down the cat’s throat – a process that involves me and R first trying to catch the cat, to wrap her in a towel, avoid getting bitten or scratched, stop her spitting out the pill – all the while arguing with each other about the best way to do it. We never
agree – me hard cop, him soft cop, but this doesn’t work with cats. Cleo’s illness has already cost us the equivalent of a week’s holiday in Paris – vets in France are just as rich as those in the UK. It has also stretched our [to be scrupulously fair, R’s] French, through extremely complex discussions and incomprehensible instructions. Still, Cleo is an old cat – she’s 15 – which is the equivalent of 80 odd years - the average lifespan of a cat – and we would like to get her through this year with us, even though she is a bloody nuisance. She would probably be happy to stay – no language problems, no other cats within yowling distance, fast moving lizards on the terrace and French catfood – which, of course is far better than the English equivalent. But we humans hope she makes it back to dear old Blighty with us. If not, it’ll be like that Rupert Brooke poem: there’ll have to be ‘Some [cat-sized] corner of a foreign field, that is forever England.’9.00 ish. Sorry, this day is going extremely slowly.
Next blog: Idle buggers forced to get down to some proper work.
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