I find myself sitting, sweltering, in a hotel room in central Bedfordshire, where I will spend much of my leisure time over the next 8 weeks. Being a fairly solitary soul (aren’t we bookish types mostly content with our own company?) I find myself very happily ensconced at the long desk with Magic FM playing through the TV, doing a bit of work, a bit of internet-meandering, a bit of phoning The Physicist/Twin/Musician…
There’s plenty of work to do so there’s not much time for reading or blogging or reading anybody else’s blogs (although never fear, Google Reader is saving them all for me for the weekend, at about 50 posts a day – I’ve got to cut down my subscriptions!!), although with nobody to complain about bad manners, I’m contentedly reading 60 pages a meal.
Tonight I started Edward Hogan’s The Hunger Trace, which is sort of enthralling in the way that literary fiction never quite seems to be and yet absolutely is. It’s the first book I’ve read since the day after we got back from France; I haven’t found a reading niche in the new Maison RWT. The Physicist promises I can have an armchair by the window in the bedroom in which to read and while I have my eye metaphorically on an armchair to fit that space, it will be a while before that dream comes to fruition as it’s in Germany. So I have filled my spare time with car tax discs and home insurance and negotiating with the gardener and the gas safety check man and taking recycling to the recycling place and not returning my book to the library because I haven’t reviewed it yet (I’m doing my bit for the local council’s economy!).
The people of England and Wales (not so much Scotland) have spoken enough about the strange yellow thing in the sky that seems to have turned up just as the country is on the global stage. Yes I care about the Olympics, yes I’m passionately Australian for these two weeks (to be fair, I’m almost always passionately Australian!) and only care about events in which Australia does well, and yes I will be glued to the opening ceremony on Friday night. Security, financial and ideological issues may exist but I am a fan. Anyhow, that burning ball of gas in the sky is making the Portacabin in which I’m working a little warm and making me extraordinarily grateful for (a) not having to wear a tie for formal business attire – although stockings are nearly as bad and (b) a powered fan. Who’d have thought the humble fan still had such power (climatological and psychological)?