Clive James was on the box last night. Charmingly witty with his usual enthusiasm for word-play, I find it hard to believe he has leukaemia even though his face is drawn from it. Recently, he mentioned that he is too ill to travel back to his homeland, and it seems underneath the wit is a forlornness contemplating mortality. On the same show, Germaine Greer said when she dies she wants to be eaten, perhaps by the lizards that inhabit her farm. I love Greer’s matter-of-factness. She has emotional intelligence, which doesn’t always appear in her words, though is sometimes written large on her face.
Day Twenty-three: Approaching the midway mark in Fifty Shards.
Temperature: It’s summer. Who cares what temperature it is.
In E L James’s [not related – thankfully!] words: I have no words that compare to Clive James’s.