Sunday, 8 January 2017

Middlemarch, again.

After a less than auspicious start to January 1--dry toast, water, and a nap--the new year finally got going around 15:00 with a gin and tonic and the ubiquitous shrimp ring. Ah, the perennial appeal of soggy shrimp and having to wrestle the meat out from its tail. Commitments were made to cut down not only on shrimp, but pastry and potatoes.  Wine is not on the cut list.  Hauled out a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary and relived Xmas all over. The Full Monty breakfast will have to wait.

January 2 was overcast and we braced for the Tuesday reality check.  This time it was the ubiquitous pan of French toast.  Portion sizes discussed again.  I read Thuet--foie gras, truffles, and sea urchin.  Hauled out a copy of Belly of an Architect--a man obsessed with his digestive tract. Look what happened to him.

Like New Year, the workweek started on a low note--rain, thick fog, grunts of good morning.  There should be a code of conduct for first day--nay, week--back.  Civility in all its forms. I don't expect a "happy new year" but let's start with good morning. It would help if we all drank coffee.  Day two of The Purge.  Where is my copy of Apartment Therapy?

Kippered salmon is a fine way to start a Wednesday.  Enjoying the fact that everywhere but Hamilton was experiencing (-28C). Vancouver chastised for having another kind of meltdown.  Near riots in the street because Winter arrived unannounced.  Excitement in the office space as the radiators were left on overnight and the building was warm for a change.

A relapse was inevitable what with early starts and a bloody freezing Wednesday night. Frustrated that we haven't seen a shift from 7:52 to 7:51 sunrise.  The sun appeared in brief and then darkness descended.  Chicken soup, day four.  Mood further lowered by finding Trump splashed across the centre pages of the Globe and Mail, again.

Sun by week's end--portending a good weekend--and more cold temps.  For the first time in five weeks, there was nothing but housekeeping to do.  Shopped for a winter dress and found exactly what I wanted.  However, it was Ivanka and had to leave it on the rack on principle. Other shoppers pointed to the Ivanka wares in jest; nobody was buying. Hauled out a copy of When Harry Met Sally which I hadn't seen in at least ten years. Was in Grade 12 when this was last in theatres. Much ado about Ms. Fisher.

Sunny today and a motivator to exercise and tackle the housekeeping.  However there is no shame in taking a leisurely Sunday. My Catholic neighbours chastise me for performing any labour on his day. There is no tree to take down this year.  Last year's tree wasn't taken down until mid-March. I'm okay with this.  We shall borrow, once again, from the Orthodox and officially celebrate the New Year with them.  It's not New Year's without a Full Monty.

At time of writing, CBC Sunday was in New Year mode:  mindfulness, no information snacks, and book clubs via the telephone. Positivity in an age of Trump. Middlemarch came up.  Like most of us, I was introduced to Middlemarch via PBS.  Reading the novel was a whole other story. What a labour! And why do we feel we have to read the classics? What of all the other books on the shelves? I agree with the head of libraries for Thunder Bay, John Pateman--let the public decide what stays on the shelves.  Although the snob in me says we should aim higher than Dan Brown. I've read Rebecca Mead's take on Middlemarch and feel it's time to revisit Eliot.  With David MacFarlane always in mind--do one thing at a time(did he ever stick to his plan?)this daunting task may yet be achieved. There are only so many to-be-read-piles one can have laying about the house. Purge the shelves of unread books! Just don't call it a resolution or else it probably won't get done.