The Texture Of An Afternoon

[poliphilo]

Ailz has moved her work station downstairs- so she can watch the French Open while keeping up with Facebook and Farmville. Yesterday it rained in Paris- off and on- and when Federer wasn't on court doing just enough to keep ahead of the human sacrifice on the other side of the net we watched repeats of Poirot and Celebrity Come Dine With Me. Reality shows are always so much better without celebrities. Celebrities are death's heads. One of yesterday's- a '70s comedian and games show host-  kept referring to himself as "the legend"- and even if he meant it ironically, it was sad. Shortly after lunch Diane from Social Services came to check that the conversion of our backyard was up to scratch. It was. I'm reading Brian Moore's The Blue Afternoon- a novel that kicks off in Los Angeles in the 1930s and then goes back to the imperial war the USA fought in the Philippines at the beginning of the century.  It's not grabbing me. Moore has done a lot of research, but he hasn't internalised it. Besides, our hero is a surgeon and I'm squeamish.