My first week in England for the first time in a year is closing to an end. I'm lounging about the sofa bed in my grandma's guest room all day because of stomach cramps and what-have-you, which I have mostly managed to sleep off in a painless bout of hourly naps. And after convincing my ever-fretful grandma that I can in fact sleep with mild, explicable pains without dying, and can in fact construct a cheese sandwich without the serrated edges grating at my (currently intact) cuticles, I am in fact home alone for an hour or so. A hundred minutes of solitude, I think to my slow-witted self.
So I have dosed the pain off into the midday hours, and I now attempt to keep bread/crisp crumbs off the bed as I single-handedly hold open my copy of The Help, which I am about halfway through. The speed at which I am suddenly getting through this book is a genuine surprise to me. I'll try to string together a draft of a review while I'm at it.
By the late afternoon They're back from shopping and I have on me a frumpy grey jumper, my indian floral trousers and my hair's in a bun that says "I don't care what amount of time has passed since I last looked presentable, but at least I've been reading more than you." (Yes I have suddenly begun to personify hairstyles - and become complacently condescending). I've made an attempt to write that review. But I've gone off on a worthless tangent before I have even got to drawing the curve of my critique. I can't think how to analyse and articulate like I once considered with stupid complacency that I once thought I had the capacity to do. With bigoted arrogance I'm showing complete disregard for the nagging voice of my intellectual honesty. I suddenly feel like I know very little about the world, or indeed the area of expertise that I would love to pride myself in having estimable talent in.
