I don’t lead a multihypenated fast-laned life. That’s fine as life in the slow lane suits me well. However when life slows to a pace that would, in comparison, make a snail’s progress look like a Usain Bolt sprint, that’s not so good.
In early January, with just a little over a week to go to my book club’s first meeting of 2016, I started reading the chosen book: David Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks. Continue reading
In the multi chandeliered ballroom of intentions and resolutions the lights only burn with gem like brilliance when intentions and resolutions are actually realised. Thus my chandelier glows with the merest ghostly glimmer because I have crossed off ridiculously few items from the list of things, I drew up a few years ago, that I wished to do in the coming decade.
I am back slightly later than I said I would be. Mea culpa!
The Tuesday before last, the 14th July, was the French National Day: La Jour de Bastille. Its celebration is many degrees different from St Patrick’s Day. Whereas our national day is: party central, a riot of all things green, and, for some, an excuse for a monumental piss-up; Bastille Day is, in contrast, celebrated in a more sombre way, the highlight being a carefully curated set piece military parade down the Champ Elysees.
Ugh, ugh, and ugh to the power of infinity: I have put on weight over the last twelve months. Not a hideously dramatic amount but enough nonetheless to ensure that many of my clothes feel uncomfortably tight when I wear them.
When I first heard about the Cross Café, a myriad of months ago, I thought that it sounded ‘just so’ and exactly the type of place I would like. At the time I mentally filed its name and location thinking I really must visit it some time soon. Then the weeks leapfrogged into months and the months into almost a year so I only got to try the Cross Café a few weeks ago. I was not disappointed: in an ideal world it’s the sort of café that every neighbourhood should have.