there’s just so much work to get through these weeks that i can’t allow myself to go out; i then spend all day staring at the material writing about 3 words a minutes and inwardly resenting not being able to go out. to make up for it i constantly sneak off to bed (constantly) with comfort books (at present, doing another cycle of the commissaire adamsbergs — i want to work in a big, eccentric and untidy office like that, i would be a mix of danglard, estalere and froissy) and for the kind of nap that is meant to be 15mins but goes on for two hours. i was sulking because i’ve not seen sunlight the whole weekend; but at 2am i go downstairs to raid the fridge (teacher’s day not three days past, and minz-mama bound to have been in receipt of chocolates.) lo! instead i find a bowl of peeled, chilled pomelo, they were, indeed, delicious and so sweet and so cold, take that william carlos williams.*
on the subject of cold plums, the vaughn writes this evening to say this is a remarkable year for plums and that he is enjoying the best victorias and old english gages he has ever had.
Best of the Transparent Hummingbird