Thursday, July 14, 2016

A red intruder

Working on my Chad poem this morning again. For the first time I feel able to write about what I saw there with sufficient distance. There is something Wordsworth said about writing about emotion recollected in tranquility.

Interrupted at one point by yowling from the back garden, thought it was Brian and Cactus having one of their regular scraps. Turned out that it was a large fox, sitting in the middle of our grassy bit, and Cactus yowling at it from the safety of a bush.

Spoke to Mum today, and then went over to see Janet and Ken in the afternoon. Ken with a much better colour these days and, prompted by Janet, sang bits of arias in Italian and in tune.

Walking home listening as I have been all week to an audiobook by Muriel Spark called A Far Cry From Kensington. One of the best things in it is I have learned an insulting new phrase for terrible writer: pisseur de copie. To my shame I have never read Spark before, but her novel is very good.

News coming through this evening of an appalling terror attack in Nice, some maniac driving a truck into crowds of people celebrating Bastille day. The news is so unremittingly bad at the moment.

Below a red intruder.



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