There are a number of reasons why I haven’t had chance to blog much recently and as this isn’t one of those personal blogs I won’t bore you with the details.
But one of the factors that I will share with you is that I have a terrible weakness for letting the writing style of books I am currently reading influence my own efforts. Some people find themselves accidently adopting the accent of the person they are speaking to but I, on occassion, have to fight against mimicking the voice of authors.
Why is this is a particular problem at the moment? Well, last week I was staying with a friend in a flat which is rather bare, almost empty in fact, given that he and his most charming partner are moving house in a few days and have already had their belongings boxed and sent ahead of themselves. How wretched it must be to have only one residence. The only items left were half-finished bottles of spirits and a few books which weren’t going to make the journey – both came in handy.
I had made the mistake of travelling senza libri which is a problem for my sleeping habits as I cannot nod off without at least reading a few pages. I am one of those people who, when sleeping alone, always awakes with a book on his chest. I understand dear Perry suffers from the same affliction.
So while the remains of a drinks cabinet helped bring on drowsiness the discarded books also had to be raided. And there was only one book that prompted even the vaguest of interest – Alan Clark’s Diary. It made the journey home with me.
I fear one really wouldn’t appreciate that bounder’s influence seeping into this blog like the overspill from the moat at Saltwood. What would The Lady make of that?
Anyway, must dash, the cleaning lady is due any moment. She really does have the most wonderfully ample bosoms.
