Saturdays are not made for blogging. I spent the afternoon mainly in bed. My mother used to retire to her bed every Saturday, holding court and listening to Radio 3, emerging late afternoon to do a little indulgent food shopping to complement Prog Rock's ascetic Sainsbury's trips, so it felt quite comforting. Also, it was daft public holiday, so there was even less reason to get up than usual.
Something peculiar happens to my house at this time of year and it becomes my absolute favourite place in the world. It's not a summer place, really: it has the accumulated grime of a hundred years stuck between the boards and the tiles, the sun shines an unwelcome light on all the dust and the badly hung cupboard doors and it's dark, not as dark as it used to be, one of the many cycles of building work has made a huge difference, but it's still no airy plate glass palace. In the winter, though, it comes into its own. In winter - it's nowhere near winter yet, it's stupidly warm (I even sat in the garden for half an hour in the sun watching a stupid chicken try to puzzle her way back into the hen house), but even so, there's a distant promise of winter - it's my perfect burrow. Dead mice notwithstanding. In the book about Iceland I am reading, people seem not to emerge from their houses at all for several months and I can quite imagine that, going a bit pleasantly crazy, endlessly nesting, making hot drinks and adding logs to the fire and rearranging blanket piles. I am a winter person, and I live in a winter house.
(You don't need to clean the windows in winter, really. I think this is key.)
Bad: Headache, L despondent about return to school
Good: Pierre Marcolini eclair, boys very happy with Museum sleepover (they dissected owl pellets, ran around the basement in the dark and slept - briefly - under the iguanodons), tea in the sunshine at the Jeu de Balle market, watching the incorrigible Belgian Arthur Daleys try to sell tourists overpriced sideboards. Also Prog Rock arrives tomorrow and we have just booked boat for Christmas trip to Yorkshire. I am now allowing myself to get a tiny bit excited about Betty's and Prog Rock's tiny stick Christmas tree and the Theatre Royal panto.
(I just had an idea for an upcoming post that will be less pointless and boring than this one, but I may have forgotten it by tomorrow.)