Monthly Archives: April 2008

carbs and sundries


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.

full bodied blend


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

fleet street


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

shock proof


“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

a girl and a suitcase


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

diaspora


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

the facts of life


“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

wisteria lane


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

nothingness


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

on growing up


I’ve lost my voice. I had it when I went to bed last night. Ask The Euro. He was getting an earful of something – I can’t remember what. It’s terrible. Like one of those really bad dreams. Where you want to scream, but can’t; and then decide well, just throw a jar of peanut

couleur locale


Couleur locale. N’est-ce pas? “Couleur locale has been responsible for many hasty appreciations,” Nabokov once wrote, “and local colour is not a fast colour.” What did he mean? I think it’s rather like watching The Full Monty from your sofa in West Virginia and thinking ‘That’s just so awesome.’ Then visiting a Job Centre in