Melancholy morning. (My melancholy - not the world's, though god knows the world should be. No, I'm not talking about purple flour thrown over Tony Blair... that is in some respects delightful; I'm talking about the hopelessness everywhere else.Though god knows I've lived long enough to know melancholy avails little; or email protests for that matter tho' I do them, I do, I do. From this exile what else? Iraq, Israel, anti-abortion protesters, you name it. G.Bush are you listening? NO!)
Beloved off with bank etc. Handsome, Blackburn out watering in front of my window. I duck, hoping not to be noticed. Wind down, sun around. Poppies on the land. What cause for sorrow? There's the rub.
Contrast between flabby tourists and skinny whip-hard Ironmen overwhelming - and depressing - not so whip-hard, let alone skinny myself, despite swimming and walking. Yesterday we took attic woman out to lunch. (Keeping bags etc, well out of the way. She nicks and hides things, it turns out.) She said, sadly. I want to go home. When it was explained - as many times before - that she wouldn't be allowed to fly - she said 'So I'm stuck then?' This conversation was rerun throughout the meal. Which I paid for and which cost 40 euros- ludicrous: but in this shopless little tourist village, overlooking today mild sea - Very blue and white sea against black rock - they have it all their own way.
Later we went down south and swam in the sea. Cold, cold. Had to avoid floats of hopeful (over hopeful) fishermen.
Frustrating attempts to set up websites etc. No word about aged pa, who, according to brother (mine) just goes on.
Now what? Clear up kitchen? Get dressed? Make tea for handsome? Attend to far from deathless prose? (article in Guardian books complains of takeover of book business by celebs (not guilty) and ordinary stuff about ordinary lives (maybe not so guiltless.)
Cat at window. Now at last the chance to be decisive. Let him in!