Sitting out late at pavement cafés. Being less in a hurry, wearing fewer clothes, lying out on the grass with a book and watching a fly crawl across the page, thinking of the whole of summer ahead.
And having a party for a book, such as last night’s for Marjorie Ann Watts’s Are they funny, are they dead? at the London Review bookshop, which has a courtyard outside and chairs inside. You start talking to X, who turns out to know Y, and there is Z, who has travelled from Moscow this morning to be here, and you become so interested and involved that you completely forget about the camera in your pocket which you’d brought to record this event, and by the time you remember it the pile of books that would have featured in this record has diminished considerably and you think never mind about the record, the important thing is that it happened and was enjoyed.
There’ll be a piece by Marjorie Ann in the Telegraph magazine in June. I’d like to say there’ll be reviews too, but can’t promise. Meanwhile the weather continues fine, and if you’re looking for a book to take out on the grass and read, Are they funny, are they dead? won’t disappoint.