Oh, blah… so Prince Charles is getting married again. Does anyone really care what he does? I certainly don’t, yet it seems to be wall-to-wall coverage of it on the radio.
I’ve spend the day working from home. That’s never a good idea. You have unlimited supplies of decent tea and coffee, and you have access to your own bathroom and views of the squirrels out the window, but you end up doing stupid hours.
It’s 22h37. I’ve just finished the document I started work on at half eight this morning, breaking only for dinner and a brief walk to the shop at eight tonight when I discovered the distant echo in the food cupboard.
I finished reading A Year in the Merde last night, as recommended by Chris of the Brennan. Very, very funny indeed, and I should imagine probably quite accurate. It’s the story of a British guy who goes to Paris to work for a somewhat corrupt company setting up a chain of English tea shops in the city. It all ends up far too neatly and ironically to be entirely fact-based, but you get the impression that at least some of it must have been his personal experience, going on how much incidental throw-away stuff there was in there that you’d never think to write if you were putting a ‘proper’ novel together.
But then, how come the author was called Stephen Clarke, and the guy in the book is Paul West? I know there’s all that changing the names to protect the innocent rubbish, but if this was supposed to be your own real experience of living and working in France, why not use your own real name?
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