Someday soon, (maybe when it starts raining again), I will come in out of the sun to write a "proper" post. But in the meantime, I feel that it is a crime against nature to be inside the house.
The English character has been formed by constant complaint, much of it against the reliably miserable weather, but on a sunny May day I would favorably compare England's beauties to anywhere on this earth. The wisteria and clematis are blooming, our shaggy green lawn has been strewn overnight with yellow daisies, and the air is like champagne.
It is the kind of weather that is celebrated in Romantic poetry. Indeed, a long-haired poet to read me sonnets and peel me grapes would be just the thing. But as the next-best (and certainly more achievable) thing, I think that I will haul out a chair and spend an hour or two catching up with The Blind Assassin. I will make a cup of tea; I will add a cashew cookie or two; it will be pretty close to blissful.
What with the tennis and the walking and the other whatnots (children, domestic duties), I'm struggling to make it through my Booker list. I keep seeing pictures of Mariella Frostrup (one of the Booker judges this year) at glamourous parties and wondering how in the world she is managing all of HER required reading -- what with her two small children, assorted journalistic jobs, and the swanning around with George Clooney. She must read a lot faster than I do, or else have the sleeping requirements of Margaret Thatcher.
So how is everyone "gettin' trew?" (Trini expression, phonetically spelled)
I am nearly halfway through "Assassin" now, and although I am the first to bang on about how I don't care about the plot and just read for detail and characterization, I am starting to want the "plot" to coalesce and pick up some momentum. Yes, Atwood is technically proficient and full of cleverness, but I feel as if I'm at an emotional remove.
Is it just that glorious sun which is distracting me?