AN UNNUMBERED HOUR OF THE NIGHT. BBC World Service is blaring. I've got back into the habit of sleeping living diarrhoeaing with the radio on. Which is odd, as in previous weeks I've lived with blankness. No radio. No TV. (We're top priority, so I'm told, in the TV Licensing authority's "London CRACKDOWN". Our home shall be investigated. Ooo, matron!
What has filled the gap? Books. But I must advise against Agatha Christie's At Bertram's Hotel. The climax is so very implausible; so very, very un-true-to-life it's a wonder the slim volume did not go flying out my window once the last page was finally reached. Miss Marple doesn't even solve the crime ~ so where is the point in that. I haven't felt quite so cheated by a novel in a long time.
Swynable (the Chinese Mouse) is angrily sleeping. After spending most of the night in mousey birdcage prison. Irritatedly nibbling at the bars and trying to get out. I had thought he might like it more in there but aparently not.
Righto thten I'm off to Mother Hubbs's presently for luncheon. And my time on this computer is up. Gotta run!
PS I am supposed to be writing my memoirs. Has anyone got any advice for me?
PPS The ceiling is leaking rain all over my bed. Lovely.
The egotism of shyness - A few posts ago I wrote about feeling responsible for killing people. I realised today that I blame myself for many things. Most things. To be honest quite...
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