But the point is: I was able to stand up and walk to table to get phone. I was able to walk down hall to my boudoir, throw on clothes, walk down stairs, get bike and mount it. This has not been true most mornings this year, where I've had to stretch legs and knuckle IT band into submission before being able to stand on my left leg. This genkiness is not due to exercise, which I've been neglecting. No, I fancy it's due to temps in excess of 20C. As a friend said of Japanese summer- 'I hate it but my body loves it: no zits, no headaches, no muscle pain.'
A change from one's daily routine is beneficial. Accomplished this and thats, like rehanging the blind that always falls down in the wind and getting the blood tests I need and washing my terrycloth sheets, and went happily back to work.
A Dead Man in Deptford. Burgess is an ass, of course: I still remember, after forty years, his juvenile howling about John XXIII's changes to the Catholic church. But English asses (Burgess, Amis père et fils, possibly Maugham and Waugh though I think they're of a higher order both as writers and as unpleasant people) do at least have more vivid vocabulary at their disposal than American asses (Mailer, Miller, Bellow, Roth.) Shall keep it, at least for the time being, because...
The Armor of Light. A re-re-read, and I still remember almost nothing of it: but the dramatis personae at the front lists a whole bunch of names just encountered in Dead Man, including All The Thomases: Watson, Heriot, Walsingham. And it might actually have more Shakespeare than either of my last two Shakespeare books, grump.
My reading this year somehow keeps coming back to the two biographies I've made my way through- Dee and de'Medici. Dr Dee actually begins The Armor of Light. Lorenzo is absent from Two Memoirs of Renaissance Florence, since they died before he was born, but this is the background against which the Medici rose to power. It's also one of a number of historical volumes sitting on my front room shelf that I'm finally determined to make a dent in.
A couple of lighter reading books on their way to me via the library system- Shakespearian mystery and A/U Holmes. We'll see if I actually want light reading. I seem to have developed a need for the dry bread of non-fiction.
Exempli gratia, I took a lovely-sounding book from the Wee Free across the street, with the lovely title of The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter: and couldn't get into it at all. Yes, scattered narration, but in fact I just couldn't care about anyone who appeared in the first twenty pages. But Buonaccorso Pitti, yes: even if all his relatives are called Niccolo and I don't know who any of them are and he's the sort of dope who'd fall for a married woman and promise to do anything she commands of him, and when she says 'Go to Rome for me' gets himself smuggled there (enemy territory at the time), spends a month, comes back to say 'I did it'. And when she says 'I didn't believe you'd be dumb enough to do a thing like that!', writes the whole story down in his diary, without comment.