Time to pick up the pencil again and sharpen it.
The summer draws to an end (what summer?) and it’s time to get out my woolly socks and hot water bottle. The shops, my favourite shops, my charity shops are chockablock with Christmas Cards and woolly socks and hot water bottles. The lauded BBQ from the BBQ summer has been rolled away behind the garage. We used it once, under an umbrella. Soggy sausages.
And a row. I told you we’d never use it. But I like it. And I don’t. Everything just tastes burnt.
My daughter is back at school. It seems cruel. The weight of expectation hovers over her and she stoops and grumbles about the unfairness of it all.
My son is back at university. That doesn’t seem cruel. He called to ask about making breadcrumbs. I suppose if you have never made breadcrumbs before it might seem tricky. He didn’t want to buy a blender so I suggested grating toast.
Rather his kitchen than mine.
I’m off to start on Schiller. And Kant. Sunday found us in Liverpool at The Tate and The Slavery Museum. I tried to hoover up the contents of The Tate, and look at them with a Sontag perspective – that art must give pleasure.