I’ve finally arrived home. To my hometown. I’m installed in my new flat with my cats, waiting for my furniture to arrive. And the rest of my life to begin.
Those of you who might
still be popping by regularly (thank you!) may well have noticed a lack of activity on
this blog. But lack of activity here belies a great deal of activity elsewhere. Indeed I
have been so very active over the past couple of months. To the point of exhaustion. I resigned, packed up and came home. And that was more work than you can imagine.
So I've been active in moving. Just not in reading
matters. Consequently, my books
have been somewhat neglected. Then packed away. Then sent off. And thus
my reading activities have more than stalled.
I did keep my Gabriel Garcia
Marquez read out. One hundred years of solitude. Indeed, I took it with me everywhere over the past two months. On the bus, on the tram. To
the dentist’s, optician’s, doctor’s, physio’s. Even to
the vet’s. But there were too many distractions. Too many check lists to check and
check again. Too many phone calls to make. People to see.
And so I have still only read a quarter of the book.
And, I do have to say, not much enjoyed that. Is it me? I'm just not enjoying the tales. The ramblings. I think it’s possibly not the
book to read while repatriating yourself. Or maybe just not the book for me. We shall see.
So in the meantime I've opted to re-read
Emma. For familiarity. For comfort.
And loving it. Again. I may continue in the
same vain and work through Austen’s novels over the next couple of weeks as my
settling in process continues.
I will get back on track –
and back to my Classics challenge – once on more stable ground. In the
meantime, JA will soothe me through these turbulent days. In which I am