A colleague of mine is returning to the UK today to visit his parents and, as the common courtesy of these trips demands, he asked me if there was anything from the UK that I wanted him to bring me back. And there was nothing.
It makes you think that an entire culture that has nurtured me for a vast number of years has nothing to offer! I spurn Marmite as I would a rabid dog; tea bags of the correct British quality are readily available in many supermarkets here; I have The Guardian sent to my iPad; I cannot eat a whole Cadbury’s cream egg, and rain I can do without. So what is there left?
The weekend is to be given over to the reading of “The Book Thief” which I have been told in no uncertain terms is both very good and will make me cry. I have read the first twenty or so pages and I am less than impressed. The novel seems affected and meaninglessly tricksy – but it is early days and a few hundred pages to go. I will reserve judgement. In so far as I have ever done that!
An early night to be up bright and early for Culture tomorrow.