The smell of fresh bookshelves

Slightly dubiously, threads of migraine still making me adverse to bright light, to work this morning. A reasonable day and snuck to Foyles bookshop at lunchtime and bought a collection of modern Finnish poetry. I'd seen some Finnish Poets reading their work a few years ago in Brighton, and I'd liked it. Foyles has expanded or relaunched a new flagship shop next to the original, which is now open and airy, smelling of new wood and fresh bookshelves.

Read another short story by Borges The Library of Babel. I am beginning to understand just what a fabulous writer he is. In some ways there is more in one of his short stories than there is in a several feet of novels. 

In other literary news, my pamphlet The Nightwork is now at the press, which is rather exciting. 

Was phoned by my new French clients, who are rather amazed to find I wasn't going to do some work for them. They suggested that last time I worked through the weekend and public holiday, and perhaps I could do this again. I demurred.

Home, luckily with no adventures, to find things a bit turbulent. Having spent a day shopping in the sun, Claudia returned with a slight temperature and was wanting to go to hospital. Lorraine (a former ward sister) checked her over, examined her now-healed unswollen foot, did not agree this was needed. There was a difference of opinion about this.  

Meanwhile I cooked a species of noodles, and later Lorraine and I looked at houses which we are going to peruse at the weekend. Gratefully to bed.  No deaths in the night.