WHACKED. Perhaps because yesterday was a less arduous day. I visit the demented Attic Woman who as usual demands booze and fags (first one answer no, second she gets: one only.) But is more smily than sometimes and sweet and in the end says 'I'm lonely.' And I want to hug her. Of course she's lonely. How sad life is. How unkind. Noone wants to grow old like this.
Last night it poured with rain, unseasonally. The guests were out for dinner so we watched the Erotic Gherkin win the Stirling Prize. This morning it dawned ominous but has cleared; wind is right down. The two Canarian palms, one silhouetted against the sea, the other against the white Moroccan looking houses - my main measure of wind looking out from this laptop - hardly stir. The sun hits every terrace and the land has the live look it gets after rain. I'm listening to Private Passions with an American novelist. Chores all done. One of the best things about life here when guests visit is that everything is wonderfully tidy. Not so when Beloved and Granny are alone. Granny vows to keep the organisation up. But doesn't. Why? Ageing does not mean getting tidier - we are as we are. On the other hand you never stop hoping. Grannypxx