Tuesday, August 30, 2011


Two weeks since I left the low yellow house in France overlooking Europe's highest cliff and a 45 minute scramble to a turquoise sea. I didn't expect to get ill so fast. I felt I could face the winter after so much intense, welcome sun.
The time after a holiday is a re-orientation, back into whatever I might describe as normality. My normality has been fruit picking, jam making, catching up with friends and since being laid low, reading trashy novels. I read very little on holiday - a few pages of Ulysses that I'm revisiting after 35 years, half of John Fuller's compelling new book 'Who is Ozymandius and other Puzzles in Poetry?'
If I hadn't been ill, I would have totally detoxed from trash reading. People keep asking me about the disturbances. What a relief to be away from the chatter. I don't want to enter into the discussions anymore about politics. There is no honest discussion about modern life in the UK.
The distance is something I don't want to lose in my re-orientation. Distance is the way into autumn and winter.