Monday, July 20, 2009


Bonny is once again obsessed with Sylvia Plath. At the age of four she took to reading various Plath / Hughes biographies and collections whenever she had a poo - the top shelf of the lav bookshelf used to house a Hughes and Plath collection. I moved it because she began to obsess over Ariel (true) and also because I fancied a little lighter browsing myself on occasion. Currently - Dear Fatty, by Dawn French. Oh how the mighty reader has fallen...

Yesterday I painted and varnished the mahoosive bookshelf in the living room. This entailed hauling many many books off, and doing a fresh sort out. Bonny helped me to reinstall, and as she passed them across, we had a running commentary.

Bonny - ... hmmm. I might read this.."The Journals of Sylvia Plath"

Pesk - (silently) Oh no. (Aloud) It's VERY big.

Bonny - (pause) She put her head in the oven didnt she?

Pesk - Aha.

Bonny - And that second wife, Asha Weevil. She killed herself too didnt she?

Pesk - Assia Wevill, yes, she did.

Bonny - Did he get married again, Ted?

Pesk - Yes.

Bonny - Hmm. I wonder if he went out on dates in one of those false moustache/nose/ glasses things to find another wife. *I* wouldn't marry him, would you? Men. Huh.

I don't know so much. I have always been a little in awe of Big Proper Men who stroll around in big tweed overcoats with serious frowns, a trout in each pocket and a well thumbed copy of a book called "I can build owt wi' three lengths of wood & a mouthful of nails" in one hand. Add to that his poetry magnet of a soul in torment and I think I might've definitely given him the glad eye.

There is no gas in my village.


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