Saturday, November 26, 2011

…and another thing…

…when I am in the middle of writing a novel, I can’t read fiction. I can’t live in the fictional world of my own novel at the same time as living in someone else’s. So all this time I’ve not been writing, I’ve been reading – and loving it.

Yesterday I picked up my grandsons from school and took them home and looked after them till their dad got home from work. This involved spending pocket money at the local shop, playing a board game which involved a maze and a minotaur, scouring the hall floor for a missing bit of a polystyrene plane kit, washing up, and cooking fish fingers and chips. It was an undiluted pleasure.  Grandmotherhood is a rather magical state of being.

In the evening I met two friends at the village pub for a meal. We talked for hours and we left at midnight. I walked home through the quiet village under a starry sky, the trees in the field beyond our house dark silhouettes against a paler horizon, and I felt blessed to live in the country, on our lane, in this house that is not too pretty but has pretty wonderful views. Location, location, location.

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