Bertie’s swishing through the plastic strips without a thought these days. They’re less see-through now – there’s a coating of dried rain splashes and and dust. Just outside the back door, we have large, irregularly-shaped mushrooms. They smell like the edible ones. We’ve left them there and they’re getting larger and even less uniform by the minute. We’ve had a fair bit of rain just recently. Bathurst has lapped it up and gone green. But Steve says that west of Orange, it’s still appallingly dry. Steve came home in his yellow fire gear yesterday. He has been fighting fires since last October. This has been a very globally warmed summer.
Reading: I’ve just finished gobbling up Ian McEwan’s Atonement, and before that the Cement Garden. Ian McEwan is going straight to the top shelf (echo here of straight to the pool room, a line out of the Castle, for any international readers out there, unlikely I know, because there is only one reader I know about and she is not international). The House of Har and Mar (my reader) sent me a link to an essay yesterday on Milan Kundera on the death of the novel. Milan Kundera is 78 and no longer writing novels (or very good novels) so he pronounces the general death of novel. Novel not dead, Milan! Not while we have Ian McEwan! For a while Kundera was the toppest of my top shelf but he’s gone down quite a few notches.