I just ate a fat wedge of cheesecake and am now feeling quite smug. Nothing gets me excited quite like a perfectly weighted - not too moussey, not too dense - slice of ambrosia, even though I’ve been sitting here for two hours and have only done a small amount of personal administration and exactly zero work.
The nights are drawing in. It’s dark outside and the superb public Christmas tree is enjoying the last few evenings of its fleeting existence. What will be the avant-garde Christmas tree next year? Who knows, but what we can be sure of, is that it would be terrible uncouth to use the same design twice. So what will come of this year’s soup du jour? I imagine that it’ll be compressed into a small metal cube, along with Fanta cans, broken spectacles, and the corpse of the Tin Man. Actually, wait, can you recycle metal?
Yesterday I finished reading Nadine Gordimer’s The Conservationist, which was brilliant except for the fact that I was never entirely sure who was speaking. I have now started to read André Brink’s A Dry White Season which is tremendously exciting, and reads more like a Chrichtonesque political thriller than a piece of anti-apartheid literature.
I actually once read a book by Michael Crichton, when I was quite young (about 11 or so). I remember that it was very long and that I felt a real sense of accomplishment at finishing it (so much so that I recommended it to my teachers, secretly thinking that it was too long for them THE FOOLS!). I also remember that it had a sex scene of some description which, at a time when Byker Grove was still forbidden fruit, was tremendously exciting to me. I’ve just Googled it and it’s called State of Fear- Wikipedia calls it a ‘techno-thriller’ (whatever that means) and reminds me that the plot was about global warming (containing controversial conspiracy opinions). I think there was a giant rain machine or something, that was going to be used to make flash floods (topical).
Anyhow, my current reading is actually nothing like State of Fear. But it’s nice to remember a time when I was excited about being able to say that I’d read a 641 page book, rather than flicking through to the final page and desperately hoping that it’s lower that 350. A Dry White Season has 309 pages and so it gets the seal of approval from weary, Chrichtoned out Nick. That said, I do wish that more of my reading list was like State of Fear, where you always knew who was speaking, whether they were good or bad, and where the ending was a sly wink to the reader, rather than an ambiguous ‘fuck you’.
I can’t complain. At least I get more than a single advent to live out my charade of adult life. Poor old metal tree, I wonder if they’d let me buy it for a tenner?