Oliver Twist is even better than television. I wonder, as I wondered with North and South, what it would have been like to read it as a serial. It really does move me to tears . . . Feeling rather melancholy at the moment generally and not sure why. All is fine, good even, and somehow seeing Rodelinda gave me some perspective on where my life is going - those sorts of long, catch-up afternoons can do naught else. And while I'm going through a frowny period at work, I'm expecting that frown to be turned upside down when the budget is worked out for next year - by hook, by crook, or by bluster. Any which way, that's fine. So I'm fine. Beyond the garden level dissatisfaction with my industry that should be there, driving me a bit.
Could be because I'm on the rag. Not on the Red Dragon, though. It's been a painless process this month too, which makes me think. We're not really vegetarians - we eat fish and cheese like nobody's business. Otherwise, however, we don't eat meat, for most of the normal reasons (concerned about resource overconsumption, we're too cheap, it makes us fat, watched too many David Attenborough documentaries resulting in a resolution to avoid eating anything who's mother loved it, etc.).
But ending up at a lousy conference in London where the only recognizable foodstuff on offer was chunks of cow marinated in something, and then ending up in a hotel in London, where they were serving a full breakfast buffet with wonderful, wonderful bacon, good lord, how I love bacon, that salty ambrosia, I ended up eating lots of meat two days in a row at an apparently critical juncture, and then not suffering the crippling pain that's become par for the course over the last couple of months. Maybe I'm just wildly casting around for an excuse to eat more bacon but I think I shall set aside a couple of days every 28 to get really bloodthirsty. Wasn't there a Danny Boyle movie about that?