Had breakfast with my Second Sisters. Scones weren’t very English, but were very good. Helped kick start weekend’s carb comma. Involved in said comma: spicy tuna roll, antipasti panini, stromboli, macaroni and gruyere cheese and large bites of pancake.

Stopped by college bookstore where once bought first Flannery O’Connor collection. Loaded up on E. M. Forster and Virginia Woolf. Had sushi and Stella and tried not to worry.

Short morning and Long afternoon tomorrow. Tuesday, more of the same. Then, big plans. Discover lake. Plan two mini breaks. Work work work. Am burdened by ruminating mind. But life is good. Very.

p.s.
Cut hair. A lot.

You know those people who go a little bit crazy if they don’t get their coffee fix every morning? I’ve become one of those. Yes. Me, the girl, who heretofore had three cups of coffee a year - and those, just to keep her hands warm.

There’s this place called Summit. Maybe a fifteen minute walk from my house. They sell fair trade coffee which is really more like elixir from the gods. I take it black, straight, because I’m no good with decisions. I’ve lived on this, and nothing else, all week. And other than an annoying ulcer I seem to have developed - stress likes to set up house in me - I feel fabulous.

Men aint meant to bare their souls. For better or for worse or for none of that stuff that comes in between. It’s what we got wives for. To put enough nonsense out in the air, so there aint no room or expectation for nothin else. Nothin from us no how. And I’m fine with that. Generally. I like it. Leaves me alone to get on with things I know need gettin on with.

I been doin that for a while now. Gettin on. Knowin. Makin decisions no real man has a right to make. But I don’t call myself that. Only half that. And I aint claimed or wanted to be anything else - anything more than half a man, half a real man - ever since my leg left me …

I’m a romantic when it comes to Fleet Street. No reason, really. Except I feel as if I should be. But I’m like that with most of London. The parts the fire didn’t get. The parts the Germans did. I’ve spent too much time hanging around the Temple. Inner. Middle. All those Barristers make me feel like I should be doing something - more - with my life. But only for a moment.

I like wandering into places. Museums. Galleries. But mostly churches. Because I never feel pretentious in a 500 year old church. Unless I’m surrounded by one of those Dan Brown tours. Then I put pretension on like a big ole Bishop’s hat.

I like the house that Wren built - all of them, really - because I can sit for hours and not feel bad about not showing up on a Sunday. St Martin in the Fields (Gibbs. I know.). Full of tourists. Except when it isn’t. St Clement Dane. All the shrapnel in her side.

But I ramble. This was just meant to be an excuse to post a photo. To break up the monotony. And all that jazz….

“The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof b.s. detector. This is the writer’s radar and all good writers have it.”

–Ernest Hemingway

I’m unpacking. This means spending time with my junk. Souvenirs. Trinkets. Making mental notes never to buy crap again. Only invest in quality pieces. You don’t go to Italy for trinkets. You go for the food and the wine and the history. For silks and leather and glass. And, occasionally, for a handful of dirt from the catacombs. (I’m odd that way.) And you don’t go to Marrakech for the crappy little slippers you can buy in the arcade. Ughh.

It was so much easier when it was just me and my suitcase. When I didn’t have to worry about crystal or china or whether to buy pretty pots.

On a separate note, The Euro mowed grass the other day for the first time in his life. He’s 35. And he gave me permission to blog that.

Still moving. Because we didn’t do it the clever way. I have boxes upon boxes of things I didn’t know I had. I could probably toss the lot of them and never miss a thing. Steph says to ebay those bad boys. But I can’t bear to part with Prada or Chloe or Fendi. Even if it’s all ugly. The Euro tells me I’m an impulse spender and that I should learn how not to be. “Designer”, he says, “doesn’t make for Delovely”.

I’m worried about my rug. The one I don’t want anyone to walk on. It’s all rolled up and I’m just not convinced that’s good for it.

Mostly I’m just glad to say I’ve made a change. To be able to suck in deep gulps of air without being suffocated by it.

Be back when I’m not battling the wireless.

“I can’t stress enough how different it is to write about the real and the unreal. When I started writing my memoir my whole metabolism changed. I’d just turned 50 and I assumed it was just age, but I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning and I had the most delicious lie-ins of my life! It was just sheer emotional exhaustion, I now realise. Communing with your significant dead is what it amounts to, and that is an exhausting thing. Not unpleasant, but still hard work.”

- Martin Amis

We’re moving. In two days. To a very Wisteria Lane looking little street with mock Victorian lampposts which I think I might love. I’m not sure yet, because I’ve only seen it once. I can’t even remember what the bedrooms look like. This is important because I’ve ordered one of those super sized posturepedics and it may not fit.

I’ve forgotten how tedious and hard on your back moving can be. I know you can hire it done, but then they break things or box things together that shouldn’t be boxed together and the annoyance of it all is, quite frankly, more than I can stand.

The Euro tells me it’s the weather he loves. The weather, he adores. The weather, and the life, he’s always wanted. But he also reminds me “this is only temporary”.

I remind him, It’s hard to settle into temporary.

I should be in bed, because I’m about five miles past exhaustion. But I’m watching some sort of Fox News. Idol just went off, the remote is on the other sofa, and I’m too lazy to get up and get it. A blond and a Ben Stiller looking fellow are chatting about ‘bring your gun to work day’. Somewhere in Florida- I’m thinking that Fark tag of theirs will get some fair play over the next few days.

This is a photo of people I know, and me. Because I need to break up all this text and my hard drive has nothing else on it.

I watched Gordon Brown earlier tonight and just had to laugh myself silly. Not because of the malaria and the $200 million - which is probably a full fifty quid or something, with today’s exchange rates - but because….did the poor man even realise he was channeling Tony?

Bless. Animation is so painful for the PM, isn’t it?