The temporary incapacitation caused by this pesky bronchial pneumonia has allowed me to indulge in a prolonged bout of reading. I highly recommend an exceptionally well-written first novel by Khaled Hosseini , The Kite Runner , both as a pleasurably bitter-sweet tale and as a seemingly balanced insight into recent Afghan life. We enjoyed a lovely trip to Chester on Monday. The River Dee had flooded the lower level of the river walk, but I have seen the waters higher on rare occasions. A gorgeous swan came to say hello to me. What beautiful creatures they are; and though to describe them as regal might be an unforgivable cliché, this word truly does belong to these magnificent birds. They can be surprisingly fierce – apparently their wings can break a man’s leg – and yet if you’ve ever watched one sailing along with cygnets hitching a ride on their backs then you’d know how tender they can be also. We lunched in The Slug and Lettuce, which was rather pleasant, before having a wand

Men are weird. No, really, they are. And yes I know some of you will have encountered similar declarations from me before but this does not lessen the truth of this issue. Men are weird. Now, don’t misunderstand my attitude. Men are also rather lovely. They’re very useful for keeping feet warm in winter and carrying home heavy shopping and reaching stuff on high shelves - though, granted, a ladder can be a valuable substitute. Ladders can’t put the kettle on, though. Ladders, last I heard, don’t come home from work with chocolates or books or theatre tickets they’ve seen and thought might interest me. And ladders aren’t much good at earning money, (rather like me, actually). However, they (men, not ladders) do have certain intriguing quirks. For example:- Why, when one man visits the other, do they seem compelled to play each other their latest CD purchases at top volume then bellow a conversation over the ensuing thunderous noise? Why are my requests for a reduction in dome

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Our bread board, butter dish and coffee machine have met with a sticky end. It was, apparently, all the fault of a carrot. Picture the scene, if you will. There was I, reclining on my pillows and sipping V8 Citrus, one hand idly tickling Ygraine’s ear, when the peace was rent by a florid flurry of fine Anglo-Saxon expressions of exasperation, followed by a rapid succession of thumps and crashes from the kitchen below. More traditional phrases pierced the Sunday ambience. He’d been making himself a smoothie, and a small carrot had been missed by the blender’s blades so he poked it with a wooden spoon then turned to the tap to rinse said spoon – only to feel the cold, wet splatter of smoothie hit the back of his head as the lid flew off. He span round, intending to grab the blender’s lid but somehow knocked the bread board which crashed to the floor taking the coffee machine and butter dish with it. Naturally, the butter dish lid fell off and broke, splattering the freshly launder

...Just as Mishima 's "angel" was first encountered glowing with promise before the slow slide into decay, this armchair was once a normal shape. The rear cushion has certainly fallen into a form of decay - or at least something of a structural re-shaping due to the regular attentions of various sleepy four-footed members of this household. This photo explains everything. My computer is three years old tomorrow. You really wanted to know that, didn’t you! It’s Tristan ’s birthday on the 9th, too. The age of the now-defunct Brotherhood of the Jacuzzi almost corresponds to the age of my computer. I say almost, because… Oh never mind; that glorious episode of cyber-history is over now and 95% of you haven’t a clue what I’m reminiscing about anyway! My poor mother is going through the mill right now, what with my father’s slowly deteriorating condition, her brother having recently died, one of her sisters having recently had a mastectomy, and now she’s learned that a clos

Despite appearances, our dog does have two ears. Her penchant for rolly-pollies on a freshly-mowed lawn is, however, self-evident. Conversation with a neighbour’s five-year-old: Boy: Is your dad a pirate? Me: My father? Boy: That man who lives there… (points to our house) …Is he a pirate? Me: No – whatever gives you that idea? Boy: We call him Pirate Man. Me: Why? (trying not to laugh) Boy: ‘Cause he looks like Captain Hook. Reading Living to Tell the Tale , it was heartening to see Gabriel Garcia Marquez state, at the end of chapter two, that “the first royalties that allowed me to live on my stories and novels were paid to me when I was in my forties, after I had published four books with the most abject earnings.” So many successful writers have similar tales. Most seem to plod away for years, getting sporadic pieces published here and there, until it’s as if they’ve undergone some kind of metamorphosis, like a moth struggling out of a chrysalis formed out of scaveng