poliphilo

Peter was here yesterday measuring up windows and consulting with us about plug sockets. This morning the electrician he'd engaged finally put in an appearance and gave the house a thorough testing. He says our wiring is fine- which is good news- and that the faulty sockets in the front room are probably down to a loose connection under the laminate flooring- which isn't. The day when the builders arrive and start tearing the place apart draws nearer; I try not to think about it.

Judy and I have been talking about Mark Twain- and to remind myself what all the fuss is about I've been reading Pudd'nhead Wilson. It's an unholy mess- carelessly thrown together, with odd things in it that just about justify it being reprinted as a "classic". Twain was a sour individual. If he'd been born in a later generation he'd have been doing stand-up- and giving Richard Pryor and Bill Hicks a run for their money. I don't think I like him.

Sam Stosur is the stand-out figure of this year's French Open. She was off the circuit for a year with lyme disease- and it's as if they've rebuilt her and she's come back stronger than ever. She used to be a doubles specialist, now she's knocking seven bells out of the best singles players. I'd be talking about it as a changing of the guard if she wasn't herself a veteran.