What is there to say? It's roundabout 4 pm in the afternoon and I've been awake for the last two hours or so - and all I want to do is curl up and go back to sleep. Not - naturally - as a result of any great exertion of the mind or body but because I appear to be entering into what Diana Athill called a dormouse hiberation. I need to get the hell out of myself, is what I need.
(Which is not to say that the surface drift of my life is exactly empty. There was chamber music on Monday, and that's more or less all I can say about it. For the nth time - Clive Bell said that the few who could truly appreciate artistic form could scale the peaks of sublime aesthetic pleasure - but everyone else, the ones who listened to a concert and thought about that pleasant summer holiday they had three years ago, could only remain at the warm foothills of humanity. I might be able to splash around in a puddle at the foot of those foothills. But there was wine and company and all the better for it. Wednesday Steph, Bee Leng and I went for a walk in the Esplanade Park, which was good in all ways. Thursday was a sober couple of glasses of wine and an early night at Bala and Friday Wendy, BL and I left Ricciotti at 10 clutching paper cups of red wine and sat by the river wondering if anyone would leave us a few coins. And then the weekend. It's a pleasant enough drift but, and but.)