I'm in London today, ostensibly here to go to a talk on European Lit at the British Library, but the trip has expanded to be a great day of culture which will hopefully make up for what I miss by living in the countryside. I wouldn't want to undo my rural experience at all, it's inspired so many interesting thoughts and ideas (which I will hopefully expand upon here at some point), but it does cut me off from lots of things that I really love.
Today will be art, great bookshops, inspiring talks and lovely cakes. I will post all about it later I presume, or not - consistency on this stuff is not my strong point.
At the moment, I am reading A Supposedly Good Thing I'll Never Do Again, which I thought I would save as a treat for myself, given that I only just finished Consider the Lobster, but it was calling to me:
(Sadly, I don't have this edition. I wish I did)
It's really good, there's nothing more I really need to say. You'd be a fool not to read it, but it's not for me to prevent you being foolish.
Here is a secret that only one real-life person knows (it is only a secret because I don't want people asking me about it): I am writing a novel. It's just a writing exercise - sort of to see if this is something that it's possible for me to do. I think that once I've got over the question of whether this lies within my grasp, then I will be able to focus on making something that is the novel I want to write.This one is just composed of what comes into my head at the rate of 300 words a day. It is surprising how it's taking a direction I never would have predicted, each day brings something unexpected, often completely at odds with what I had previously planned. I'm really enjoying it.
I think that's all for today. There are three 50-something men in suits at the table next to me having really boring conversations that make me so glad I don't have a real grown-up job where people have all-day meetings about sales-forecasts and delivery-projections. I want to leave to get away from them.
