Just spent 45 minutes reading a Forsythe short story. I have to say it was well worth it even though I was terribly sleepy. Nice, easy, understated plot, good writing and description and just a great story overall. And its only the first one. I have to say easy reading has its merits.I wish I could say I read a lot. Maybe I will be able to; its not such a hard wish to fulfill. Coetzee, Forsythe, Brearley, Myers, K&O . . I suppose I ought to start very, very soon.
A few months ago, I was sitting on one of the small stools in the kitchen, the ones that make you feel like a little child again, waiting for the water to boil. I was making tea for my dad and thought how cool a feeling that was, to be home again, doing home-things in a warm kitchen where everything was as familiar as it was leisurely. But later, in a different city, in a place just called home, a place that I have to remember by numbers - fourth right turn, third house on the left - a place I have to recognize by signboards and which I sometimes pass over in the dark because I miss the gate, a place where almost-strangers let you in when you ring the bell; I waited the same wait, standing and waiting for the water in a newer pateeli . It wasn't warm at all; it was just a cheerless, empty, disconsolate feeling. It made me feel low to even think of another place as home. Eating in alien plates, drinking in alien glasses. I never learnt to memorize the house number or the telephone n
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