So, between our move, the ever efficient English telecom industry (cough), and work, it’s been . . . let’s see–a few months since I last posted. Not that all two of you who read this were worried or anything.
The telecom players work much like everything else in the UK–they appear to still think its 1936, and service is something they may only provide if and when they feel like it. It took over a month and about 10 hours of hold music to get our Internet, telly, and telephone installed . Oh, and did I mention–UK companies routinely use premium charge lines for customer service–when you call, you get to pay them up to 90p/$1.80 a minute for the privilege.
With the family in the States for most of the period in question, it was a little quiet around the house. That, of course, meant I finally had a chance to read (which I surely wouldn’t squander any of by visiting local pubs, oh no). McCarthy’s The Road pretty much blew a hole in my head and left me staggered, numb . Bad things happening to children hit me with visceral force. Thoroughly enjoyed Pym’s Quartet in Autumn. In sharp contrast to The Road, Quartet is a quiet, subtle story that glides through the twilight years of four aging workers in London. The issues dealt with are weighty, depressing ones–what becomes of us when the world begins to function well outside our abilities (or even our frame of reference), or when no one is left to care for us? But Pym lightens things with graceful humour:
‘They say it’s a wonderful light, a special quality it has,’ said Letty, repeating something she had once heard or read. ‘And the wine-dark sea — isn’t that how it’s described?’
‘Oh, I don’t care what color the sea is,’ said Norman. ‘It’s the swimming that would attract me.’
‘You mean skin diving and that sort of thing?’ said Edwin . . .
