"It's not that we're so great, it's that the others are so fucking mediocre."

Eve Arnold. 'Nuff said.

The consolations of literature

In other news, the man at my table has taken his shoes off. I guess he's settling in for the day. Which is unfortunate, as I have to finish this story before 7pm and he is entirely in my eyeline and I am spending far too much time beaming hatred in his direction. Which he apparently doesn't even notice. Why are my eyes not lasers?

However, old pleasures come bubbling through. There's a line in Tom Brown's Schooldays where the boys take off their top hats and tailcoats to play Rugby football, "and those who meant real work their waistcoats too." I have always adored the idea of playing rugby in waistcoats.

Okay

I have finished my story, and printed it out, and set it by the door where - with any luck! - I will not forget it. It is called "In the Broken Heart of Glass", for those who like to keep a track of such things.

I have poured a glass of wine. It is called Red. (Actually, in fairness, it is called Trezanti Salento Negroamaro - but I did once see a Frenchman sitting on a quai drinking from a plastic bottle that was simply labelled "Vin". Presumably, one could tell rouge or blanc by looking through the plastic, and what more information did one need...?)

I have prepared two boxes of books for sale at the bargain price, and printed out a sign to say so.

I have forgotten to include any copies of Blood Waters, or Shelter.

*dashes off*

*dashes back*

I have included Blood Waters, and Shelter.

I have fed the cats Early Tea, which is their second-favourite kind. (They prefer Late Second Tea, but that seldom arises.)

I have replenished my wine. These young wines, they go so fast, it's hard to keep track. I should stick to bottles my own age, probably.

Now I shall read my friends page and noodle a little until it's time to go. A wiser man would probably read through his story, but, y'know. Live is soon enough.