To the Lighthouse

Late again to work, the train crawling through the fog up to London. For the second day in a row I am sat in the same seat, albeit a drafty one, and the day passed fairly unremarkably.

Listening avidly to To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf on the train, and walking around the streets, including Fitzroy Square, in a lunchtime stroll. Quite odd to be mooching about with Juliet Stevenson reading aloud some of most best writing I have ever encountered in my ears. Now I want to buy a physical book so I can pore over individual passages of transcendent beauty and dazzling skill.  I'd only ever read Mrs Dalloway before by Woolf, and that I found brilliant. But I think To the lighthouse is absolutely magnificent. One of the best things I have ever read.

Called by First Matie on the bus home, she was in the Mulberry Bush enjoying a drink after the works festive meal. This pub, opposite IBM is is where Reuben, Kate and I went for our first drink together many years ago. Kate had a cider, which put both Reuben's mind and my mind at rest, having just hired her.

Home after 8:30, Lorraine training governors, so I cooked for us listening to the last chapters of the book. Both of us compelled to drink a glass of wine and sprawl on the gold sofa before an early night.

Below more snaps of Oxford Street, and the purgatorial multitudes around Oxford Circus.