Poulenc

Swept along by irritation at my frowsty sitting area, I gave up trying to tidy it for something approaching a photoshoot and repainted it. First two colour choices were dire, but soft putty has transformed it. The blackout curtains on the side windows are retired for the moment too.

I also tore off the skirtings, the last dinky ones in the house, and am sorely tempted to rip up the carpet. Two-foot-square cement tiles underneath which could be coaxed into smartness, but horribly hard underfoot, and my precious antique Afghan rug would get pounded.

The feeling of that area is quite changed, into something approaching an orangery. Pale colour, white linen sofas, lots of glass and big mirror. Nice.

What I really meant to write was that last night I was seized with the desire to hear Poulenc's Domine Deus, and discovered a wonderful version by a school choir on youtube. When I think how hard a bunch of adults found it, and these kids manage so beautifully! Fieldston, in the Bronx.

Then Gounod's St Cecilia Mass for good measure, and I have been driving Stefan mad with soft dirge-like renditions all morning while I cut the last fourteen China Blue cushions and wondered which French composer was the one who interfered with the choirboys (Saint-Saens?). He has gone to buy chocolate biscuits for morning tea, but I suspect he just had to get out. Poulenc isn't something that the people can hum.