The winter sun like a black glare. I have been writing to a friend in the UK and commented that I went out into the back garden to pick a bay leaf and realised our sun in early winter is as strong as the June sun in Britain. Lemons yellowing on the trees, filling up and rounding out. Ripe avocados dropping onto the grass – each morning I spoon up a creamy avocado with a little lemon juice and some black pepper. My neighbour eats his avocados with sugar and cream.
Sleeping much of the day, unable to work but reading: the novels of Margarita Krapanou, the philosophy of Walter Benjamin, Peter Mayle’s semi-fictions about Provence, so light-hearted and incurious. If you peered into my soul you would only find a steaming dark lake of Ceylon tea, with and without milk, lemon, sugar. But as I lie in bed and sneeze or splutter, I long to be up and about, catching up on work, rolling out phyllo dough, dicing tomatoes, chatting to friends, watering the garden, walking dogs. And the schleffera are in bloom, incandescent burgundy, purple and stormy blues or violets.
Back when I have more to say and an active brain –