Back to rainy old England, to what feels like the last dregs of summer, the tired grass, the muddy footpaths, even a few fallen leaves. It seems like Autumn.

 

But hey, the dog survived our absence, so did the rabbits, and the plants are still blooming.

 

I’ve been reading a whole slew of novels about war, dismemberment, war, rape, pillage ... is there a fashion for those at the moment or am I choosing them? I must say I felt unsurprisingly guilty on my sun lounger sipping a pina colada and reading about civil war in a novel set an island in Papua New Guinea. But not guilty enough to stop sipping (or reading). I wonder if that’s why the term ‘holiday reading’ came to be. So you could avoid anything uncomfortable.

 

And talking of uncomfortable, what has happened to all the fishes in the Mediterranean? I spent ages staring into the water near rocks in calm bays looking for them. I saw one fish. There were quite a few in the harbours, near the boats, but on the beaches, forget it. And fresh fish has become an expensive commodity where it used to be a staple cheapie. The restaurants display it in glass cases as if it were the gold of Tutankhamun. What did Joni Mitchell say? “the took all the trees, put ‘em in a tree museum, and then they charged all the people a dollar and a half just to see ‘em’ .

 

Last night we went to see Billy Elliot, the musical. Now I am not a fan of musicals, but this one is fantastic. If you want to learn about narrative, look at Lee Hall (the writer). If you want to know about directing, go to Stephen Daldry. Immaculate. And surprisingly uplifting despite being set in County Durham during the miners’ strike.

 

Meanwhile the editing of this issue of Magma continues, alongside my own pamphlet and an article I’m writing. And the kids, of course, are still on holiday.