Good Things

I soar and glide to the bus, the softly-falling rain aiding and abetting my flights of fantasy. Walking is for mere mortals. I step into shallow puddles and the water swirls underfoot- it doesn't bother me. I glide. There are days (and evenings) when all seems right with the world- even with a dreary, gloomy sky reminiscent of the macabre darkness when the Nazguls flew down to attempt a defeat the good and the brave. Call me eccentric, but the blue night feels like adrenaline, a spurt of mysterious energy shot into enervated veins. Your face is a beacon in the night, easily spotted for all its plainness, an ethereal glow suffusing the spirit but also manifested corporeally.

A well-stocked refrigerator, along with a periscope-glimpse of a rainbow and a recently replenished bookshelf, helps matters.

There is no state or level of despondency that a succulent piece of chocolate cake, laced in unknown pockets with the richest dark chocolate icing, cannot cure. It surprises you with the absolutely numerous ways in which it can be delectable- and you don't tire of it, not of one reasonably-sized piece, crumbly and cool, generously sprinkled with nuts (and hazelnut in particular). You eye it with unabashed greed as it sits on a dish beside you, diminishing gradually as the spoon digs into it with unstudied eagerness, satiating and filling, the divinity of the epicure.

And now, as a chocolate-smeared dish is all that remains of the feast, I can sink into my couch and read into the night. A spot of unexpected shopping on Saturday has set my bookshelf creaking. Added to the pile now, after I stumbled upon the half-concealed book fair without a name and only a cloth banner to distinguish it from a warehouse, are JG Farrell, Isabelle Allende, Annie Proulx and Nicholas Mosley- a motley selection of recent writing (compared to the long-gone people I normally take refuge in). The 'book fair' was in a large room lined with tables and shelves. Erotica, thrillers and candyfloss romances with risque covers took up quite a bit of space- and after I'd patiently waded through the not-so-appetising fare, my patience was rewarded. I delved into the rows with delight- I played the pick-up-and-drop-in-favour-of-something-more-appealing game, upped the number of books I could purchase without contrition and left with a glance of fond regret at the ones I'd put away. It's about as painful as looking into the eyes of a wounded animal.

Tonight, though, it will be Life of Pi- and off I sail on the choppy ocean, rain drenching me body and soul, a tiger for company.

(Digression: Wikipedia tells me Nicholas Mosley is the half-brother of Max Mosley, once President of the FIA. What a small world!)