March 24, 2012 § 41 Comments
I am here but busily going in for deflection. Deflection is the key. Dealing with the children and cooking for tonight when eight – alas not nine – people are coming for supper. In the garden with any luck. So, in between Proustian thoughts and reflections and yearnings which I wish to keep to a minimum, I am thinking about scrubbing brushes and cleaning my garden table which has been hammered by the weather and otherwise, for a year, served no purpose but as an object for me to look upon from the window and to suppose, vaguely, that I am luckier than it.
Thoughts of going back to Proust and Turgenev and Tolstoy, properly immersing myself in the classics in the way I did in my twenties. Perhaps, when the children are away, I shall just stay at home and make them almost my entire business for the whole two weeks.
I have been contemplating travelling to Paris to hook up with pre-marriage friends, and maybe to dip down further south to see current ones, and perhaps I should. Get me out of myself.
There again, maybe I should stay at home and leave Tolstoy to do that for me.
Easier option. Cheaper.