The strange displacement of not living at home. I am finding it is one to get used to; perks and disadvantages. We are staying in the middle of a village, hemmed in by the water, where there are a number of the most beautiful houses. All week I have wondered by, peering over walled gardens, to glimpse some of the prettiest real estate in the country. So many are shut up and dark during the week, signifying that they are holiday homes or weekend bolt holes for Londoners wanting to head South. I surmise this, not really knowing, but assuming. We are living day to day, popping back to our real house which presently looks unrecognisable from certain angles. The building work continues relentlessly, which is good, as we had a pause for so long that the inactivity was making me tetchy. Now I am looking forward again, looking toward they day when I can move back into my white-washed, new place. It'll be months...
A return to yoga, always always welcome. How I miss it when it doesn't feature in my life.
Reading 'The Goldfinch' by Donna Tartt...all 900-odd pages of it. Stunningly well written, I am only a third of the way through.
Constantly and endlessly formulating my book plot in my mind. Yet not actually writing much! Too much upheaval. Time to start in earnest...ever the procrastinator. There is a reason why not everyone writes a book; it's hard!
New silky trousers that I can ill-afford but they did just speak to me. Impulse buy.
A funny old summer. And of course the weather is changeable and most of the time I wonder whether when September comes I will look back and think where did that summer go? It feels like time is skipping by at such a rate.
Living with less.
Reverting in all cases to my usual mantra that white is best.
Liking the free-fall but secretly missing the routine.
As ever, undecided; vintage Lou.
