Sitting on the Sofa for three hours this evening, after Id finally got through putting other peoples children to bed.
Sitting on the sofa for three hours, wrestling with Oscar Wilde.
And hes a big fucker, too.
I mean, youd think if I was going to pick a classic playwright to tussle with, I could at least have picked someone like Samuel Beckett, who was old and thin and weak and would have been out after a couple of crap girly punches in the face.
Or George Bernard Shaw, who had a beard that you could grab onto while you were kicking him in the nuts.
But no, not on the reading list for next week. So Wilde it was.
And Im having to research a play I really love; The Importance of being Earnest, which is great.
But for some reason, it took me 3 hours to get through 6 pages of it.
For some reason.
Or perhaps some reasons.
I was watching television. That was one reason. And then I had to change a fuse, and get a sandwich. And a cup of coffee.
And play with the kittens, and then one of the girls woke up. And then something good came on television.
And then I had a sudden compulsion to use the phone.
And then the toilet. And then the phone again. And then there was something else on the television.
And I have the concentration span of a carton of Orange Juice.
Those were some reasons.
And it was in French.
That was the over-riding reason.
It was, well, it is, in French. Its sitting there, on my bedside table, glaring at me. In French.
And I dont read french. I dont speak French, I did 4 years of French 10 years ago, and recieved quite poor marks for it.
Anyway. something deep in me seems to believe strongly that I know how to read French.
This is the second time that Ive borrowed a script from the Library in French, and Ive no idea why I do it.
When I pick it up, it seems like the best idea in the world, and I go, I check it out at the desk,
and its only when Im outside, walking away from the library that I realise.
Je ne parle pas français.