Losing Interest

I know I'm ill because I got bored almost immediately with Eustace and Hilda and had to put it down. Bored with LP Hartley! Unheard of. Nor can I get particularly interested in the crossword, or even Killer which usually keeps me enthralled to the bitter end. The news is tedious and childish, and there's nothing on television tonight as any night this week, now that The Good Wife is over for good and Alicia didn't end up with Jason. The weather is awful, and I barely saw the sun all day. I've cancelled my friends who were coming for tea tomorrow, though not yet the Sunday lot. I'm thinking of going into Fram for a takeaway korai chicken and pilau rice, because frankly the alternatives in fridge and freezer are leaving me as cold as Eustace and Hilda. I have a big Waitrose shop being delivered in the morning, though I've forgotten what I ordered. Hopefully my mind was clearish when I compiled my list. I can't be bothered to check now it's too late to change it. Let the contents come as a surprise.

The only bright thing in my life at the moment is Hugo who is rising to the challenge of having an unenabled mother. I can't take him for a walk, so we go into the field next door and I let him off the lead. He runs ahead as usual, checking to see that I'm following, and when he gets far enough ahead I turn around and walk away, and so he thunders past me at top speed. I turn again, and he races to catch me up and then charges off again. It's the only way I can exercise him without exhausting myself, and bless him, he never seems to get tired of it. I do this for as long as I can, and when I'm ready to go back he comes to my side and walks very close to me without being told. In the garden I throw his squeaky toy for him, and he gambols around like a puppy until I grow too tired for this too. His manners are impeccable. He never gets cross when I abruptly end something he has been enjoying. He sits close to me until he decides he wants to go somewhere more comfortable, and then off he trots, calmly and peacefully. I can't wait to take him off for a proper run, but who knows how long that will be? Reading Jenny Diski's In Gratitude, I'm made keenly aware of more important things people want a timescale for, like when am I going to die? The harsh rawness of this book with its uncompromising glare at things normally too awful to contemplate is the the only thing engaging my concentration at the moment. I don't like it, and I don't recommend it. But I admire it, and her. She met her death head on.