When le pain is no pain
Took a briefing this morning for work on French bread products from my lovely French client Jeanne. After spinning about in my chair for a while thinking about what attracts Brits to French stuff I found my feet taking me the few steps down Trafalgar Street to The Real Pâtisserie. I scored a fresh baguette and then some brie and spring onions from M&S and had them inspiringly for lunch with a cup of coffee, flaking crumbs into an open copy of J-P Sartres' L'Être et le Néant.
Thus fortified, off to get a haircut down by Seven Dials. There was some sort of shouty altercation going on between a bicyclist and a car driver. This caused my barber to talk about how he had been recently cut up on a bicycle and wanted to fight someone. I quickly changed the subject as in talking about it he was jabbing my head and shearing the sides with barely suppressed violence.
Then an afternoon of faffing somewhat and vaguely getting ready for tomorrow's trip to Guernsey. Eventually settled down and did some good work on my poetry. At the moment I am veering wildly between thinking my MS is tripe, and one of the most original things ever committed to the English language. Won't be long now before I can send it off, and I'll find out.
Then spent a happy half an hour or so watering plants and deadheading roses. This done, I spoke to Mum, who'd just come back from her chemo treatment and was naturally feeling somewhat tired.
I decided to take myself out with one of my poems to work on. I was desperate for a change of scene so went for a solitary drink, worked quite well for a bit, but after a while felt fleetingly maudlin. So home, and cups of tea, and then bed. All well.
Took a briefing this morning for work on French bread products from my lovely French client Jeanne. After spinning about in my chair for a while thinking about what attracts Brits to French stuff I found my feet taking me the few steps down Trafalgar Street to The Real Pâtisserie. I scored a fresh baguette and then some brie and spring onions from M&S and had them inspiringly for lunch with a cup of coffee, flaking crumbs into an open copy of J-P Sartres' L'Être et le Néant.
Thus fortified, off to get a haircut down by Seven Dials. There was some sort of shouty altercation going on between a bicyclist and a car driver. This caused my barber to talk about how he had been recently cut up on a bicycle and wanted to fight someone. I quickly changed the subject as in talking about it he was jabbing my head and shearing the sides with barely suppressed violence.
Then an afternoon of faffing somewhat and vaguely getting ready for tomorrow's trip to Guernsey. Eventually settled down and did some good work on my poetry. At the moment I am veering wildly between thinking my MS is tripe, and one of the most original things ever committed to the English language. Won't be long now before I can send it off, and I'll find out.
Then spent a happy half an hour or so watering plants and deadheading roses. This done, I spoke to Mum, who'd just come back from her chemo treatment and was naturally feeling somewhat tired.
I decided to take myself out with one of my poems to work on. I was desperate for a change of scene so went for a solitary drink, worked quite well for a bit, but after a while felt fleetingly maudlin. So home, and cups of tea, and then bed. All well.
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