Morning. The sun is up. It is also out. This is a surprise. Horrible weather was predicted. Jubilation ensued. Took walk, in gym shoes, with magazine, as is habitual. Looked up rather a lot. Showered. Breakfasted. Walked into Oxford’s city center.
Noon. Arrived in Oxford city center. Weather nippy, but bright. Mother cried at sappy music. Errands ensue. Sim card acquired. Required anger at banking and bureaucracy. System cleansed by lunching on shared mozzarella panini and fries. Attempted resistance to bookstore. Failed. Purchased books. NW by Zadie Smith. Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon. New collection of Grimm’s fairy-tale adaptations and comments by Philip Pullman. Joseph Anton by Salman Rushdie deemed too big to bring back in suitcase; will be ordered. Toiletry purchases cleanse book guilt with two-for-one offers on hosiery.
Afternoon. Arrive, by bus, back in Summertown. Clouds gather, but retain moisture. Nap taken. Taxi ordered. Synagogue is attended. Religion is not observed, but tradition is, at times, for nostalgic reasons. Mother is moved by service, though melodies are all wrong. Congregation is friendly. Synagogue’s president just got back from New York. He saw Bruce Springsteen. “Queued for fourteen hours.” He swallows F-word down, just keeping dignity, while emphasizing Bruce’s brilliance.
Night. Taxi back. Apartment is a mess. Leftover cake gone bad. Thrown away. Shame. Packing to be done. Skype date to be had. Sleep to be slept.
Tomorrow. New beginnings.