Distractions

The last of the dehydrated fish skins have been savoured and swallowed, the gourmet biscuits crunched and every last crumb collected and licked away. My, but they went down well. It's what posh dogs get for Christmas - food their owners could eat. The traces of pine needles from the tree are awaiting the hoover, which is awaiting my return to health. Cards have been gathered and given to charity, and the cake is just a smudged silver board with the remnants of some icing. Already we're well into January. I love the winter, and never suffer from seasonal affective disorder as a lot of people I know do. I think living in the country is what makes it a pleasure, because I've struggled with in the past when days seemed interminably long and the world felt grey and heavy. Walking briefly with Hugo this morning well-defended against the rain, and again later, I experienced a familiar burst of euphoria. There's been no wind for days which I love, and the scene outside is settled, silent and serene. The air was thick with moisture but it was clean and fresh. Say it a million times as I know I do, the countryside sustains and supports me, it gives me strength and makes sense of life for me. I hope I can stay here until I'm past caring.

Since being ill I've started and given up on many books that I can't be bothered to engage with. One that has seduced me is The January Man by Christopher Somerville. His writing drew me in at once, and I became engrossed in his memories of his childhood home and friends, and in particular his father. He happens to be the walking correspondent of The Times which is odd because I've never encountered him. And when I looked him up on google his image was a million miles away from what I had pictured, more salty adventurer than gentle lover of all things rural. His father, like all men of his generation, went through the war, and he was a strong, quiet, dutiful and loving man who didn't talk about his job in Cheltenham. His son only discovered in adulthood that he had been Head of the Soviet Bloc at GCHQ, managing the "Cold War" through the terrifying 50s and 60s.

Another book I love and have started to read again is The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry. We watched the film at Christmas, but for several reasons it was not terribly satisfying, the chief of these being the notoriously non-Irish Vanessa Redgrave playing the main part. I've struggled with her for many years, not convinced at all that she's a great, or even a good actor. And now at last I'm convinced. She's actually awful, useless, heavy handed where she should be subtle, resting her laurels on a name and a weary delivery vibrating with pathos but never feeling quite genuine. Begone Vanessa! So I need to recover this wonderful book which might descend into the fanciful towards the end but is still a delightful example of great story telling by a very gifted Irishman. Slainte