Blessed are the pacemakers

That was my thought this morning.  B***er the Greeks.  What’s so special about the Greeks?

Reading Alan Bennett, a collection entitled “Writing Home”.  I’m not sure how we came by this – probably in a charity shop or in our local second-hand book shop.  This is run by an older couple who are very active in neighbourhood affairs and who for some reason either don’t like me or have decided that I don’t exist.*

Maybe I don’t.

Anyway, Alan Bennett: this compilation includes “The Lady in the Van”, about a woman who parked her ancient van outside his house and lived in it, in conditions of squalor, for a couple of decades.  She was a true eccentric, created her own political party and intended to stand for parliament.  Like a lot of eccentrics she did not want to be known and went under an assumed name.  In 1984 she wrote a letter “To someone in charge of Argentina” beginning:

“Dear Sir,

I am writing to help mercy towards the poor general who led your forces in the war actually as a person of true knowledge more than might be.”

and finishing:

“Yours truly,

A member of the Fidelius Party.

…Translate into Argentinian if you wish.”

Dickens couldn’t have made her up.  Recommended reading.

I also have an Isabel Allende waiting but I have to be in a certain mood to read Isabel Allende.  I have to be feeling at least 45% Spanish.  And today (possibly thanks to Bennett) I am around 95% Anglo-Saxon.

Today: to Loughborough to see Mark’s mum.  Collect stuff from the chalet.  I shall have to be judicious about how much time I spend there.

Lots of ideas collecting about the novel.  But sometimes I worry about my sanity.

Kirk out.

*The man always says hallo to Mark and never to me, and the woman looks (and talks) as though she’s swallowed a lemon.