It's a week since I made my resolution to keep off the
crystal meth newspapers- and I haven't boken it yet. I may have picked up a copy of the Daily Mail at the in-laws house, but I put it down again pretty smartish. Besides, the Mail doesn't really count, it's the broadsheets that suck me in and waste the precious minutes of my life. I've been watching the TV news- which tells me enough of what's happening out there to keep me afloat and able to make polite conversation. Let me see, the banks have either been making obscene profits or catastrophic losses- as they do, someone or other has said the retirement age may be raised to 70 by the year 2045 (by which time I expect to be ashes), there was a power boat crash in Dover (illustrated by a tranquil, sunny view of Dover bay), the new commanding officer in Afghanistan- who wears glasses, but otherwise possesses the right degree of aristocratic hauteur- has said the army could be stuck out there for 30 or 40 years, and the England cricket team has collapsed against the Aussies at Headingley. Gordon Brown is on holiday so we've seen nothing at all of him- which is nice.
Not reading the newspapers has freed me up to do other things- like slap yatch varnish on the window ledge by the kitchen sink, like make plum crumble (from a recipe ganked off a blog), like organise the kitchen, like sort through the first two years of this journal and restore some of the photographs that were lost when we cancelled the contract with the picture hosting site in 2005.
I was badly tempted this morning. The pull of the Sunday papers is particularly strong and insistent (childhood memories, I suppose, of how fat and juicy the Sunday Times used to be with its wonderfully innovative colour magazine) but I resisted.