So. Three months later than planned*, I’m posting some of the writings that padded out the quieter moments of my family jaunt to visit friends in Spain. In (cringe) October. Immediate I am most definitely not. And I wonder why I just can’t take to Twitter…
Of late, Alan Bennett has come to enjoy an almost godfather-like status in our family. He pops in (well, into conversation) during most of our gatherings – my Christmas 2008 gift to mum was a signed copy of his The Uncommon Reader – delivering advice and regaling tales of old Yorkshire and his own ‘mam’.
As well as Seb Faulks, I had my head buried in Jim Cartwright’s Road, devouring lines in preparation for November’s run of the play at Bath’s Rondo Theatre while Malaga’s insects devoured me.
And of course we were surrounded by Spanish writing. While we tried our darndest to piece together shameful half-phrases and exclamations, the brilliant typography and stunning layouts (not to mention the illiterates’ joy, the pictures) punched through our linguistic ignorance. Viva municipal warnings!
* In my defence I have been relearning to ride a bike and re-reading Jacob’s Room. Productive, no?