It was a working Sunday, though to be honest I worked only from the afternoon onwards, but at least finished one of the things I needed to do this weekend. Lunch was phatooray from Icchra, a classic desi meal which I used to have with my mother back in the day when she went to Icchra often to buy fabric and we’d go upstairs by the mosque and eat and wipe our fingers on pages torn out of the telephone directories. My mother is gone, telephone directories are gone, but phatooray remain.
The GF and I did a little bit of travel planning. We are thinking of two stops before his classes resume in the blight of Bali: one in Sri Lanka and one somewhere in SE Asia – perhaps Laos or Malaysia.
I have listened to rather a lot of podcasts about Evita in the past few weeks, almost enough to make me want to watch the musical despite my dislike of musicals and despite the Madonna film leaving me completely cold. I certainly want to go to the Evita museum if I go to Buenos Aires.
And as for books – the spontaneous combustion just occured.
I think I will never be a lover of Dickens though I see why others enjoy him as they do. He is funny, his characters are great, the books build a world, he’s immensely dextrous and of course influential. His London of chancery is fascinating for one who lived in or near those parts. There is a great deal to enjoy, but Orwell called him a weed, and reading him is like having a strangling vine twining about one.