El est still really kicking herself for missing the eclipse on Saturday, is reading: The God of Small Things --Arundhati Roy. Again.

There is something hopeful and Arthurian in a Golden Age sense about everything today. It's in the slow, noble, Gladiator soundtrack carried-away movement of the clouds across the sky. It made the dirty puddles near my flat look pretty as I left the house, and it was ringing in the London Travel anouncement man's voice at Kings cross: 'Ladies and Gentleman, there was once good service on all underground lines. One glorious, fleeting day, in the times of yore, when line ran by line in blissful harmony, and among passengers there was much rejoicing...but this morning we have some minor delays on the district and circle lines, with planned enginereing work continuing on the northern line between Camden Town and Charing Cross...'
He didn't actually say that.

But the sky is almost-childhood blue, the grey is just as illuminated as the grass, and on the glowing green or dusty, heat-waves-bouncing-off smelling illusion of tarmac and concrete, puffed up, male, fop pigeons dance round and round and round in blissful foppery, as if they didn't look ridiculous and the females weren't ignoring them.

In any case, I've decided that I'm too young to complain about housework.