Minuitiae

Last night watched Falling Down for the first time, then drugged myself as much as I dared and slept wonderfully. I worked from bed this morning before tackling the sewage pump once more, then worked some more, a little sewing, a little writing, and so the day goes.

I am making bread to the minimalist recipe from the New York Times, that should be satisfying even though I can't eat it. I am getting fed up with my dietary restriction, I can feel a grumble at the back of my throat even though I do feel healthy on it, apart from one episode of hypoglycemic shock which at least proves it's working.

I enjoyed Mary Wesley's mix of conceit and self-loathing but she is not a great writer, and the editor should have been ashamed - windows which were nailed shut on one page were flung wide a few pages later (and show me the London terrace which has casements!) And more. It was mainly interesting for her dated take on aging (her heroine has given up at fifty) and her unflinching focus on it.

She also paints a London in which country ladies up for a few days unhesitatingly head for the Ritz, the Dorchester, the Connaught, even though they have no means of support visible or invisible, and dress from jumble sales and hand-me-downs. I think that era has passed.

She is saved by her unapologetic nastiness, no martyr's crown for her. I'm glad her books are short though, because time spent in her characters' company is abrasive. That one is going straight back to the Salvation Army.