Yes, I know it's Thursday already, but that's how long it tends to take to get around to posting.
This is most banal, but blogging endures best, I've concluded, when it offers slices of everyday life, and mine is not, on the whole. filled with what most people would consider excitement or exception. A young friend, the daughter of friends, whom we saw for the the first time in a while before Christmas, asked how was life, and I said genuinely it wasn't bad at all, in fact it had been quite a good year. What was good about it? she asked. On reflection, all I was able to say was that nothing too bad had happened. I could have gone on to say that we had all remained in reasonable health despite aches and pains and ear infections (none of which afflicted me personally), the only person who had left us did so peacefully at a good age leaving the gift of having known her untainted by any complications of remorse or bitterness, that together we had managed to make a couple of trips over the department line and individually a couple more over the Channel without crises of doggy health or any other kind intervening to spoil or prevent them, that I had grown some quite good vegetables and done a lot of knitting (I may in fact have mentioned the last fact, with a requisite hint of irony and self-mockery), that my very few remaining students of English were sweet and (mostly) willing and fresh as flowers, that we remain financially solvent while aware of added fiscal burdens, that I had not, thus far, crashed my car, that I had read some good books and even after some months of hard work got to the end of The Golden Bowl... But I already realised that to a thirty-something trilingual Paris career girl, her life filled with angst and elation and anticipation with the highs and lows of work, ons and offs of relationships, agonisings about biological clocks undsoweiter, I really had very little of interest to offer.
But never mind, I maintain that for me now, boring is good, that nothing bad is good, that sunshine in my blue room full of stuff,
a new fleecy blanket snagged in the sales which I didn't need but which is of such a sublime, belle verrière, shade that I couldn't pass it up, and the fingerless mittens I made from some wool my sister gave me from her stash and which it wasn't cold enough to wear with the blue blanket over a lap full of wool so I just kept them by to admire them (first I made the wool into a hat but it wasn't quite right, and I needed mitts to wear to use the camera so I pulled it apart and repurposed it),
that listening to Monserrat Figueras on cd,
followed by the radio adaptation of the Barchester Chronicles, with a contented dog snoozing beside me
are all very good indeed.