Yesterday Toyah and I had a farewell lunch (before her arrival home about 1.30 tonight) at our favourite pseudo-French restaurant. The in-house aural pollution system had choosen a Gallic crooner to bleat at the patrons and patronesses, naturally and reasonably in French. We speculated that perhaps he was declaiming the merits of fine French cheeses, but that audients of the perfidious kind would be uncomprehending of his recommendations.
Then, via the basement of Andy's record shop and the acquisition of four budget CDs, I have returned home to pears so tasty and ripe that they have begun falling from the cottage espaliers. Beaton mounted my leg, as is his habit when he requires a soft, juicy dried apricot. The air is autumnal, rich with a soft regret for Summer's end, and the sky's clear light blue matching the crispness of the breeze.
Four nights of ProjeKct One mixes await my attention; as do final choices of ProjeKt Two mixes. But now at 23.40 my desk continues to present me with a pile of paper which seems to grow as I deal with it ...
"When we have nothing to say, it is very hard to say nothing.
When we have nothing to do, it is very hard to do nothing."
