wistful thinking

The lawn slopes downwards towards the bottom of the valley and the late-afternoon sun is soft on the beaming faces of the people in the garden. There is a table laden with apéritifs and children are tearing about barefoot and shrieking with delight in French, English, Spanish and heaven knows what else.
Three women wearing cotton skirts and sandals sit in a row with babies on their knees.

Would it be simpler to stop trying to teach myself an impossibly hard profession, to stop trying to mop up every second of excess mental activity with ridiculously complex Slavic languages?

Should I maybe do some voluntary work, try to live a more natural life, meet a kind, honest man who would be prepared to love me and spend my days attending to squalling infants and spaghetti con capperi?



Oh come on... what on earth would I find to blog about?!