Fabi went with us to the supermarket yesterday- to give Odi a break from him- not that she really needed it because she was glowing with health and running up and down stairs for fun. He's at the age of "satiable curtiosity"- constantly pointing things out and ending every sentence (though they're still all in gobbledygook) with the upward curve of a question. He sat in the kiddy seat of the trolley and Ailz gave him the horn off her mobility scooter to play with.
Peter is working nights at a care home- and spending his days going to interviews. The odds lengthen on him actually getting to be "there" when his baby is born.
The rain stopped for a while this afternoon, so I set up a chair in the garden and read a handful of essays by Hilaire Belloc who was- I think- the first entirely adult writer I ever read. On this occasion I read his essays on Ely, on Roncesvalles, on the Canigou, on The Roman Road and on A Man and His Wood. On that first occasion (I'll guess I was about 12) we were on holiday in a damp hotel in the Quantocks - a house where Wordsworth had stayed and entertained Coleridge- and the bookshelf (guests for the use of) was full of Belloc's books and I read them all. I love his sense of place and history, his boisterous catholicism, his pagan tristitia. Later I became a fervent Chestertonian, but if I had to chose between the two halves of the Chesterbelloc it's Belloc I'd keep. He has the less original mind, but he's wiser and- at the the level of craft- a much more varied writer. I don't suppose I'd have liked him in the flesh- he was boisteous, of a bullying manner- a man's man and I am not- but these are accidental things.