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.
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