Trust me, it’s as cold as it looks up at Winterton dunes. Back home it’s a struggle to get out of bed, where I can stay snug with Dylan tucked in beside me keeping my legs warm while I read my new Christmas book, Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, short stories by Richard Yates, writer of Revolutionary Road, which I have neither seen nor read, yet. The first three stories are very, very good. The setting is New York in the forties/fifties; as I was jogging with Dylan this morning (lunchtime) I was thinking how they remind me of Mad Men. Like that brilliant show, these stories are set in a world where oh so many social rules and codes, while still in place, are on the point of breaking down. Perfect material for a writer. One of the difficulties we (I) have in writing today is that there’s no longer an oppressive established order to oppose and undermine, something everyone recognises, an obvious counterpoint on which to focus your writerly anger.
Never mind writerly anger; note instead the tidiness of my sideboards