under another sun

Walked up to Downs school this morning to deliver my invoice, then into town to pick up a prescription and go to Sainsburys, little chores but happy to be strolling in the sun for an hour or so. Then home to work on another concept for the French folks, and a little bit of copy brushing on some stuff for Beth. Also sent some more poems out, as lots are pinging back from competitions at the moment as non-winners. Richard though, had some poems placed in the Guernsey poetry competition, which I did not enter, placed fifth and sixth in the Open category, and second in the Channel Islands category. A wonderful bag of placings. Also sat in the garden for a bit. I have a garden and I can sit in it. For the first time in my life I fully understand why people can become obsessed with their gardens. Birds were singing and there was the sound of children in a school playground on the hill across the little valley. I looked at all the seedlings we have in our cold frame, and at our three shrubs...

Lorraine up early and, via school, off to Kingston Hospital to be with Beth. As the day wore on Beth had a scan and it is thought she has an ovarian cyst rather than appendicitis as first feared. A good deal of hanging about waiting in vain for explanations. Eventually at nine Betty was discharged on the proviso that she return if anything worsened. She went back to her student house with painkillers to the attentions of her pals. Lorraine home late and in need of a glass of wine and the fisherman's pie ready meal she'd bought herself. My day was good. Made good progress on my business book this morning. Time is always a good editor, and my enforced layoff is proving helpful now I am back into it. Otherwise not much to report. Am off the antibiotics, which feels better, and I am gulping down live yogurt to repopulate my flora and fauna. It is a long time since I have felt so ancient and run down. Perhaps this temporary world-weariness is making me enjoy Evelyn Waugh's...

Why be happy when you could be normal? Despite my best efforts, not much happening today. Found myself unable to write, and business avenues seem temporarily blocked. Instead I went to the gym, then voraciously read Jeanette Winterson's Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? . I can't remember when I last consumed a book so quickly. It is a mainly a memoir about her childhood, dominated by the religious and depressive monster, referred to as Mrs Winterson, who adopted her. At one time Mrs Winterson made a bonfire of books that Jeanette had hidden under her bed. It also sketches the circumstances that lead to the publication of her first and largely autobiographical book Oranges are not the only fruit in her mid twenties. It then fast-forwards to a breakdown she had in recent years and her sucessful attempt to find her real mother, and a kind of peace made with the memory of Mrs Winterson. The book resonanted with me, just because her experiences where a little similar to my ow...