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Oct. 20th, 2008 07:49 pmI'm back from Sydney.
The cemetery trip was lovely. In the end, there were four of us, and we visited sad Miss Donnithorne and talked about Dunbar ghosts (not with sad Miss Donnithorne, you may be pleased to note). Every time I go to St Stephen's I reflect that Charles Dickens would have had so many fewer stories to tell if he hadn't used tales linked to Australia. One of those fewer would have been an improvement on the literary landscape. This is, of course, the moment Gillian discovers that she is still a trifle peevish on the subject of Fagin.
As well as paying respects to the dead and demolishing a scrummy picnic lunch (never refuse a picnic catered by Llyn), we also did some Newtown shopping. I now have the third Brite Liquor book, and my inner foodie is happy. The chipotle chilli and the bush pepper I bought on Saturday added to my sense of foodie satiety.
If I had been wealthier and stronger (it turns out I am not nearly as well yet as I thought, though I'm still way better than I was) I would have been carrying many more books home. Since my to-be-read piles still contain nearly 30 books, my wealth and health actually worked in the direction of sanity for a change. This is rare and I am taking a moment to bow my head in honour of the grace of almost-sanity with only thirty books to read. I finished all the books I said I was reading, too, which means that my reading piles are saved from teetering by dint of much hard work. Also many entertaining authors. There wasn't a bad book in the lot of them, this last week.
The rest of the weekend was quiet. This meant that today, which has been anything but quiet, balanced things out quite nicely. Or it will, when I catch up on sleep. I had fascinating things to tell you, too, about favourite seats in busses and about the oddness of everyday life. Sleep is more important than ancedotes, however fascinating, and to achieve sleep I have to actually make my bed. I suspect I can't make my bed and blog at the same time, which is a sad lack of ability on my part.
The cemetery trip was lovely. In the end, there were four of us, and we visited sad Miss Donnithorne and talked about Dunbar ghosts (not with sad Miss Donnithorne, you may be pleased to note). Every time I go to St Stephen's I reflect that Charles Dickens would have had so many fewer stories to tell if he hadn't used tales linked to Australia. One of those fewer would have been an improvement on the literary landscape. This is, of course, the moment Gillian discovers that she is still a trifle peevish on the subject of Fagin.
As well as paying respects to the dead and demolishing a scrummy picnic lunch (never refuse a picnic catered by Llyn), we also did some Newtown shopping. I now have the third Brite Liquor book, and my inner foodie is happy. The chipotle chilli and the bush pepper I bought on Saturday added to my sense of foodie satiety.
If I had been wealthier and stronger (it turns out I am not nearly as well yet as I thought, though I'm still way better than I was) I would have been carrying many more books home. Since my to-be-read piles still contain nearly 30 books, my wealth and health actually worked in the direction of sanity for a change. This is rare and I am taking a moment to bow my head in honour of the grace of almost-sanity with only thirty books to read. I finished all the books I said I was reading, too, which means that my reading piles are saved from teetering by dint of much hard work. Also many entertaining authors. There wasn't a bad book in the lot of them, this last week.
The rest of the weekend was quiet. This meant that today, which has been anything but quiet, balanced things out quite nicely. Or it will, when I catch up on sleep. I had fascinating things to tell you, too, about favourite seats in busses and about the oddness of everyday life. Sleep is more important than ancedotes, however fascinating, and to achieve sleep I have to actually make my bed. I suspect I can't make my bed and blog at the same time, which is a sad lack of ability on my part.