A whole day spent programming. Uncalled for. Inappropriate. Inadequate. This won’t do.
Today I don’t feel like writing. I’m low on energy and a bit fidgety and uncomfortable, perhaps because for some reason I got up before I’d had eight hours of sleep. I spent a bit of time reading this diary; I’m going slowly, because it’s tiring. I don’t know if it’s tiring because it’s badly writt…
I wondered what pigeons know about death. At one point I had a sense that the widow wasn’t so much mourning as waiting, as if she thought what had happened to the pigeon could be reversed. My suspicions were confirmed, in a way, when the wind started to blow. The widow got excited because it looked…
I turned the computer off some time ago; I don’t know where I found the strength. I wavered for a few minutes before I made up my mind, thinking about all the things I could do on it, such as writing this diary and sending some long-overdue replies to emails; many people will be wondering what’s be…
This Saturday ritual is very satisfying; I found three books by Maugham I didn’t know about and one by Len Deighton I hadn’t read, and which I’ve now started, cutting my reading of poor old Rosa Chacel once again. If you ask me, Deighton’s better than le Carré when it comes to spy novels. They have…
