Books

I dreamed I was moving house- and the removal men were at the door and I'd forgotten to pack my books- so there I was- with my female assistant- tumbling them off the shelves into bags, sacks, pillowcases- whatever was available.

I'm reading Citizens-  Simon Schama's history of the French Revolution. It's awfully good. If a fictional narrative starts to cough and splutter all the writer has to do- according to Raymond Chandler- is have a man come through the door with a gun- but an historian doesn't have that resource. He can't invent a thing. It amazes me how such a very big book, with a cast of thousands, which has to be constructed entirely out of facts- many of them to do with economics and dull stuff like that- can still be so gripping.

I'm waiting- impatiently- for the delivery of a copy of Walter de la Mare's Winged Chariot- a long, meditative poem about the nature of time.  I used to own one- a first edition no less-  but I sold it when money was tight and have regretted it ever since. De La Mare's stock has fallen- and this copy- in good nick according to the seller- cost me a mere £2.80 on Amazon. It's a late work- written when de la Mare was around 80.   I like de la Mare's later poetry: it's twistier, more metaphysical than the earlier, chiming, fairyland lyrics he's best remembered for- but no less beautiful.

Bins

Ailz's podiatrist was in a foul mood. Nothing has gone right for her today since her wheelie bin fell over.

Our new blue wheelie bin was delivered this morning. It's for paper, cardboard, telephone directories etc. I need to go paint our address on it.