It’s a quiet, reflective day today. Almost (almost ) a touch melancholic, although the truth is that just by typing ‘melancholic’ I feel instantly rather better – a wry appreciation of how my mood really does not actually qualify by any stretch of the imagination. I think I’m just a bit out of practice at having relaxed, solitary days after a summer of seeing people, having lunches with people, drinking with people, going to fabulous dinner parties expertly hosted by Andy Kings (with people), and so on.
(Either that or I’m uncomfortably close to finishing Nights At The Circus and sad at the prospect of leaving it behind. Ah, Angela Carter. When I first read Wise Children at the beginning of Year 12 I didn’t really get it, and it took Mr Buchanan’s intense enthusiasm to jump-start my brain into appreciating it. He also advised me to read One Hundred Years of Solitude – something else I eventually foisted onto Book Club – which I loved too. Thank you, Jimmy )
Less than two weeks now before I disappear up the West Anglia Main Line for one last hectic year of Cambridge. (Some people allude to geography through the incantation of dull road names – not me.) Robert’s already long climbed the West Coast Main Line for Manchester (see, I really mean it), Lucy’s in a bit of a quantum flux between Birmingham and Brighton (via the… ur… don’t worry) but will soon crystallise on the latter, and yesterday I bade farewell to Sanna before she relocated today to Norwich. Which was nice, as tea at Sanna’s always is, and we learnt all about the units of monsters.
Oh what raucous secret parties must be held by Joshua, Saoirse and Abbi in our absence…