I must apologise for the weather if you are a denizen of the UK. The reason we are not having our forecast Indian summer and are instead having an intensely wet September this week is because Oscar’s school is going on outings all week to an outdoor sculpture park. It can only have been bettered had they decided to do it over a bank holiday weekend, while the tennis was on.
He is set to go with the fourteenth best cagoule that comes to his knees, his wellies and a spare set of clothes. I tried to buy waterproof trousers today while I was out, but apparently there is no call for them. I can however buy a lot of faux Seventies slacks in a frankly disturbing shade of mustard, and a lot of Halloween costumes that are keeping the nylon industry alive and well. I might send him dressed as Elsa from Frozen, but with his wellies and cagoule as well. He’s not likely to combust in this weather, which is one thing to be grateful for.
In other news:
I have been grinding my teeth in my sleep again. I woke up this morning to a mouthful of blood and chewed cheek. Mmm. It’s good that I’m such a relaxed and laid back person, or I wouldn’t have a face at all.
I read Late Fragments: Everything I Want To Tell You (About This Magnificent Life) by Kate Gross. It was amazing. Kate died on Christmas day last year thanks to a late diagnosis of bowel cancer. She was 36. She had two small boys and a husband she left behind, and the book was written to as a kind of love letter to her sons about how wonderful life is and how wonderful her life was. It is uplifting, it is joyous and it is so, so sad. I cried my way through the entire thing, but oh, it was lovely and brilliant and just the thing to make you marvel at the world again.
I have been, on the other end of the scale from uplifting to frankly rather gross, howling myself to bits about the David Cameron pig-gate fiasco. I care not whether it is true or false. It is funny. Not only is it funny, but it frankly serves Cameron right. If you rubbish people, like he has attempted to rubbish Corbyn for the last few weeks, you cannot cry foul if the same fate awaits you. It just goes to show that you reap what you sow (and you can use the word ‘sow’ in both senses here for an added sense of irony).
I am still writing the book. I am not enthused this week. I have decided that this does not matter one jot. I shall write on. I have set myself a target and I will reach it come hell or high water. It is no good thinking that novels only get written in the haze of a purple patch of inspiration. They get written, I suspect, in quiet, dogged, determination that looks a lot like ‘fuckit’, because you know, it’s what you said you were going to do and it would be feeble to give up now. I managed two days worth of my self imposed quota today as I am out again tomorrow in that there London. I am going to see Timberlake Wertenbaker’s Our Country’s Good. I hope it is.