Enjoy the Sun
A few months ago, I joined my landlady's bookclub. The group lives on the same street as me and is made up mostly of women in their forties and fifties. Some of them are powerful members of Eastend councils; some are writers who have plays regularly broadcast on Radio 4 and in theatres across the country; and some are civil servants that know exactly what kind of work people do in Peter Mendelson's office. I'm the baby of the group.
Every month, one person picks a novel for the group to read. If you'd like the privilege of picking the next one, you offer to host the party the following month, which includes providing wine, cheese, bread, dips, crisps and olives. This month was Ali Smith's Hotel World, hosted by the playwright. We sat in her kitchen and disagreed about Smith's style while her husband and children sauntered in and out to stare at us with Saint Bernard eyes or whisk away bread sticks. When she found out I'd worked at the National Theatre, she got excited and asked me if I knew people in the Education department. Another weird coincidence: she went to Brasil with one of them, at the time I was in the department, and I later saw the photographs in the office. I also, at the time, created image galleries for her play on the National's website!
I'll be hosting the next bookclub meeting, in December, when we'll open bottles of champagne in Christmas' honour and I'll show them London's winter lights from my balcony. I need to buy wine glasses and fairy lights, think of what food to serve. We are now reading Wilkie Collins' No Name.
When it's sunny, I try to walk to work and take advantage of the free vitamin D available. Victoria Park's lake must have been unusually low yesterday because branches were poking out of the water, to the delight of the various birds that live in the park. It was like a tropical lagoon under cold, fluffy clouds. I wish I had brought pieces of bread with me to feed the swans.
My energy levels though have been very low and I haven't been sleeping well. It's as if I had vital organs removed overnight without my knowledge. This morning, I found many flowers and cards tied to a pipe underneath one of the train bridges east of London Fields. There were photos of a young beautiful man, and messages of love for his loss. One of them was from his sister; another one described that spot as the place where he "fell".
Every month, one person picks a novel for the group to read. If you'd like the privilege of picking the next one, you offer to host the party the following month, which includes providing wine, cheese, bread, dips, crisps and olives. This month was Ali Smith's Hotel World, hosted by the playwright. We sat in her kitchen and disagreed about Smith's style while her husband and children sauntered in and out to stare at us with Saint Bernard eyes or whisk away bread sticks. When she found out I'd worked at the National Theatre, she got excited and asked me if I knew people in the Education department. Another weird coincidence: she went to Brasil with one of them, at the time I was in the department, and I later saw the photographs in the office. I also, at the time, created image galleries for her play on the National's website!
I'll be hosting the next bookclub meeting, in December, when we'll open bottles of champagne in Christmas' honour and I'll show them London's winter lights from my balcony. I need to buy wine glasses and fairy lights, think of what food to serve. We are now reading Wilkie Collins' No Name.
When it's sunny, I try to walk to work and take advantage of the free vitamin D available. Victoria Park's lake must have been unusually low yesterday because branches were poking out of the water, to the delight of the various birds that live in the park. It was like a tropical lagoon under cold, fluffy clouds. I wish I had brought pieces of bread with me to feed the swans.
My energy levels though have been very low and I haven't been sleeping well. It's as if I had vital organs removed overnight without my knowledge. This morning, I found many flowers and cards tied to a pipe underneath one of the train bridges east of London Fields. There were photos of a young beautiful man, and messages of love for his loss. One of them was from his sister; another one described that spot as the place where he "fell".