*tuneless whistle*

Sexy tea

Eureka moment just now when the unconscious finally revealed ("hey, pay attention to me.") why I drink Rooibos tea even though it tastes revolting.

To whit, the stuff reminds me of that kind of torrid, fabulous sex you can have with someone you really love.

An oddity to associate throw-down, startle-the-monkeys, creative sex with the traditional comforts of tea yet Rooibos has such a pervasive scent and seemed to always be about.

Damn Proustian moments. And grrrrrrrrrrrowl.

Reading: Le Nouveau Bescherelle and stressing out.

Warning

There are certain books which should come with warnings. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers should come with little excuse cards to be given to all acquaintances, colleagues, friends explaining you will be in a grand, solipsistic haze and hate your father for the first three-quarters, revelling in your own ego and its many colours, to be eventually tinged with a kind of quiet, only-slightly-irritating sweet complacency.

The Master and Margarita requires loads of vodka; The Unbearable Lightness of Being a trip to take, preferably with no planning; Gerald Durrell loads of hot tea on an overly sunny day. Or olives, eaten to make your palms greasy.

This last book, A Partisan's Daughter, should have come with a warning to have someone to touch right at the second the final word is read.

Le sigh.

Reading: Have just finished A Partisan's Daughter, by Louis de Bernière. Now on to The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley. First few pages are promising.