I have been reading a lot about the Plath and Hughes debacle - plus re-discovering Celia Fremlin - plus re-reading Maria Coffey on the death of Joe Tasker on Everest - and, above all, continuing being taught by Jehovah. Col drove me to the Hall last night for the meeting. We are learning about "the marriage of the Lamb" this week. It reminded me of my Catholic Convent Schooldays, when all the nuns claimed to be the bride of Christ. Which made me feel rather sorry for Jesus, though I suppose I thought he ought to be able to deal with them if anyone could.
A lot of thoughts jumbled up in my head. Along with the sawdust. And the guilt, at doing so little. My knees are still painful, and its hard to sleep, hard to get comfortable at night. I think what I had better do is concentrate on a Celia Fremlin quote or two, to give a flavour of the book, as I will have to return it to the library soon enough. She can be very funny. I love the greenfly.
This quote is from "The Long Shadow", when our heroine finds, to her shock, that her stepdaughter's house is up for sale (she is in for another shock when she goes inside):
"Thus it was that when she first saw the FOR SALE board, she quite thought she had mistaken the house. It must be No.32, or No.36, into which she was inadvertently turning.
But no. It was No.34 alright. For a moment she stood staring stupidly.
"It can't be..." was her first thought; and then; "But surely Herbert would never leave his greenfly?"
His roses, of course, really; but since it was always the greenfly that one was hearing about, it was difficult not to think of them as the central attraction. She stared again at the board."
Then there is the neighbour of our heroine (Imogen), who has just been widowed before the book starts. The neighbour (Edith) is also a widow of long-standing, and is very competitive about it.
"Edith stared, her mouth opening and shutting silently, while she sought vainly among her habitual repertoire of reactions for something that would do. There was nothing; and so she settled, at last, for being vaguely offended. Not that Imogen's outburst had been an insult, exactly, but it was - well - ungrateful, in some complicated way. After all, if she, Edith, was prepared to understand so well how Imogen was feeling, then surely Imogen could at least go to the trouble of feeling that way?"