low culture, low expectations

Several days in which Ms Baroqe has done nothing. She has cosseted what remains of her eyes (much better today); tried to read the Forward-Prize-winning Swithering, by Robin Robertson, but was defeated by a combination of Celtic twilight and trying to read it (in that light!) with one eye shut, which doesn't bode very well either for Paradise Lost; she has bought and cooked the minimum necessary foodstuffs, except for a Ben & Jerry's Oh My! Apple Pie! ice cream (yes), and has cleaned the kitchen. The mushroom, chicken & lemon risotto was a perfect autumn Saturday dish. She did a hell of a lot of laundry. She went for a lovely walk in Clissold Park, with the intention of finding the tree the fifteen-year-old rock god's crowd hang out under, and giving him a bollocking in public - but they weren't there, so it was just a nice walk in the park. The conkers are coming out, and if it hadn't been so painful she would have brought home a decorative bowlful of them in their prickly pale green pods.

Excitingly, she caught up with EastEnders after a long lull - but still has no idea what's happened to Sonia and Martin, the odious pair, to say nothing of that noxious storyline where Ian Beale was pretending young flibbertigibbet What's-her-face was his 'wife' for the purpose of impressing those weird charity swingers (why has Jane taken him back?? Oh - because she's a soap character).

See, we do manage bits of low culture in this house. I'm trying to ban reality TV for being too boring, inane and the augury of the death of civilisation, but I'm all for the soaps. You just can't ask too much of them.

And I'll have to get someone to come and read me Paradise Lost, but even if one did that, these days the little minx would be trying to watch America's Next Top Model at the same time (talk about HELL).