Waking up

How different the neighbourhood looks from last night. Everything is closed: it's Friday.
Dust on the cars.

Down in the square below my room window, the children are playing with geranium petals. That could be a like from the Pillow Book - Pilgrimage diaries: More on lists and order from chaos

Reading The Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen at breakfast.

Struck by her particular kind of sensibility and delicacy of observation. Reminds me of A Wreath of Roses by Elizabeth Taylor. Both writers seem to have depth of personality (like the woman with the crimson lipstick I met on the bus last night)...

"On a footbridge between an island and the mainland, a man and woman stood talking, leaning on the rail. In the intense cold, which made everyone hurry, they had chosen to make this long summerlike pause. Their oblivious stillness made them look like lovers - actually, their elbows were ome inchces apart; they were riveted not to each other but to what she said. Their thick coasts made their figures sexless and stiff as chessmen...."

Further on...

"I had no idea how blindly she was going to live.'

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