I write, often,

and yet often have a sense of not saying anything important. I read what other people write, the magical things they do with words, and despair. Strong word, yeah, but it gets it. (I can't do it there's no way I can ever manage something like that why even bother). That's the sort of thing. But then I grandiosely imagine myself as the doctor in Camus' The Plague - and keep on at it anyway.

Started the week in Paris, a place I had never really seen beyond the Louvre, Eiffel Tower, etc etc etc. So I went for something else. Time with friends, for a start. Two startlingly different people, with different rhythms and tones. The first was a Sunday, languid speech and slow-moving grace. The next a Tuesday, crackling with the joy of things to be done, a face turned always towards you. Between them, a day spent finding new things - the impossible grandeur of Napoleon's tomb, the twisted streets conducting the laughter of students. This was the Left Bank, after all. Some clichés are more than clichés. I found the obscure medieval French book I needed.

There was glorious sunlight as well.