This has not been the greatest of trips. Granny succeeded in putting her back out just like Beloved - too much coughing in awkward positions or something. He sat on one side of the room, she on the other, both groaning at attempts to get to their feet. Comic really. Darby and Joan recumbant. But tiresome. Fortunately miracle chiropracter came to the rescue. Till she did, Granny read everything in sight, Beloved solaced himself with heavy correspondance about zombies with his son, via email.
Zombies? you ask... Now, darlings, don't get all excited, these are philosophical zombies. Something quite different it seems from those quaint cosy undead-type zombies lurking around horror movies - the kind you love to shiver at, the dear cuddlesome, shuddersome things. Philosphical zombies come in quite different forms - no, don't ask Granny to explain. Beloved did attempt to explain to her and gave up. It's all very complicated and ever-so pernickity - the philosopher's equivalent of angels on the head of a pin - zombies in this case. Granny has very little patience with such things - was only glad it kept Beloved happy. Yesterday he said: 'I think we've solved the zombie problem!' Since it wasn't a problem exercised Granny much she found it hard to adopt the appropriately pleased expression. She tried, though.
Her much smaller mind was rather more pleased by yesterday's Evening Standard headline: TV star bites homeless man.' That's much more her sort of thing. Though she hastens to say she did of course feel sorry - very sorry - for the poor, bitten, homeless man.
Back to her island on Friday. See you there.