Hello. It's cold and it makes me quiet. I just want to curl up and read in bed with my hotwater bottle. I know this is feeble but I'm still trying to shake off my 'whatever illness thingy' it is that is hanging around. I've had tests, all negative so far. Need to do poo tests for parasites, the doctors are 'seeing so many parasites at the moment.'
Quiet weekend ahead. The week has been fine if a little busy. Taught Tuesday afternoon/evening, a parent-child session at a school nearby. It went really well so that was good. A huge group in the first session, about 40 people, which is big for these types of things.
Then taught Years 9s at a secondary college out east yesterday and Wednesday, covered six sessions over the two days, so I'm pretty tired. Then went out to dinner last night with my Dad and that was nice. It was the restaurant we used to go to as a family in the late '70s and through the '80s, and the same people are running it, a bunch of Lebanese brothers (it's an Italian restaurant, you know it, it's quite well known, there was a big food poisoning case a few years ago, big fines etc but so well patronised because the portions are so huge, I'm supposing, and the food is not bad.) Anyway, the guys all remember my dad and they just love him. He's like the big man walking into the place, feted by everyone and we hadn't been there for probably 15 or 20 years before we went once last year and then again last night. They kept coming over, telling him how good it was to see him. Brought us port (blech; they are still living in the '70s man) and it was a fun night especially as my daughter spotted a man at a table who looked like Hitler would have, if he'd lived to mid-sixties. he had the moustache, he had the facial features, so then of course we were saying that Hitler had a son, to a French nurse when he was a soldier in WWI. That kind of thing. And here was the secret son. And then we were saying imagine growing up with people telling you that you looked like Hitler; imagine growing up with you not knowing who your father was and then you work it out somehow.
That's a story. Dinner with Hitler. Maybe it's already been done. So. He was there, he ate fried calamari and took a doggie bag with him when he left. They didn't stay that long, maybe they heard us talking about Hitler.
In other news, there isn't any. Not really. So. Am writing (revisions) and rewatching GIRLS (again. I just love it.) We finished watching Puberty Blues, it wasn't terrific. I am not investing in Master Chef, those days are over. Am loving Game of Thrones but only one a week: deprivation. Have started the second book but am having a break and reading other stuff, including at the moment I just started We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler which I'm really enjoying so far. Yesterday I finished The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair by Joel Dicker: very badly written but I could not stop reading it. It was compelling, annoyingly so. So, what is the mark of a successful book? It has to be that people read it and finish it. That has to be the first mark of whether it works or not. So I suppose in this case, it is true. There is so much buzz about this book, I get it but I don't get it.
Hope everyone is okay, and keeping warm if you're down south.