Sunday blues

4:30 am and I’m up dinking lemsip, listening to Jamie Callum wondering how to find shuffle play on my new gizmo.

I listened to a radio programme yesterday about translating. I will be trying to get hold of the Dictionary of Untranslatables in English, it has done well in French too. It was interesting to hear about words like disillusion, which imply revealing the truth and removing a misapprehension. Whereas in the romance languages it also has the connotation of sadness.

Another session in the Antelope with the miscreant yesterday. I left after my pint of Cornish ale. He stayed to knock back a couple more ciders. We returned to cook lasagne and play boardgames. Scruples was good fun, trying to pair another player with the answer you hold to a moral choice: Yes\No\Depends.

My better half has postponed the shopping expedition and may venture into the big smoke before we head for home. I went into Kingston yesterday morning and bought myself Clark’s black lace up shoes and some perfume for my mother.

Why do people talk bollocks? Last year I was told that YSL had stopped making their Rive Gauche line of perfumery. Last Christmas not just one lying shop assistant, but at least three, told me that my mother’s preferred line was no longer available. A surprised Sardinian woman working in Boots was able to disabuse me of that mendacity.

Opium smells nice, I like the black version with notes of coffee, but I won’t be wearing it.


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