Not quite sure where the book came from but it's found its way into my home. Am reading Last Orders by Graham Swift. Won the Booker Prize in 1996 so I am really in the groove.
Probably not the book for me since it is all about death and some drinking buddies going along to scatter the ashes of their erstwhile drinking chum.
Am getting through it in a methodical 20 pages a day way. Decided to leave in Paris for the weekend so I could concentrate on the newspapers and the magazines on the train this morning.
Was doing OK ploughing through the Sunday Times and the Mail on Sunday which the paper informs me is 70p cheaper than the Sunday Times.
When I returned from the restaurant car - that sounds so Orient Express - I found a rather long haired tattooed type standing next to my seat and talking to three women in the seats in front of mine.
They turned out to be members of the Cellestial Cello Quartet on their way back to London after doing a gig at Le Grand Palais. They'd lost the fourth member of the group. But it was interesting listening to their tales of being one of the warm up acts for Laurent Garnier.
They're going to be at the Savoy later in the month.
Their stories kept my mind of my aching side. Horribly crocked was I in Saturday morning's shuffle. The only positive about having my side bruised was that the team won 2-0.
I'd like to think it was the image of me jogging round the running track which inspired them. As it was those few laps wer about the extent of my exercise in the second half. I went back on, ran a bit as I did my bit to defend the 2-0 lead but when I tried to stretch a leg out, I realised I couldn'ty go on any more.
Off I went.
Don't know if I'll be back on the park next Saturday.
If I'm not, more time for reading and listening to cello quartets.
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