The thermometer may be reading close to zero, and the sea is covered with whitecaps, but the sun is once more in evidence. It makes a huge difference psychologically, even if I am spending the time indoors, marking left-over essays from Edinburgh.
The sun brings out just how near the snow line is to Antibes, and produces two magic moments a day, at dawn and dusk, when the mountains glow in a most unlikely colour of dayglow pink. Quite sublime...
Three quarters through reading The Boneyard by Paul Johnston, set in the same dystopian republic of Edinburgh as his Body Politic. Nice to read of the chill (physical and moral) when seated 2000km away. Almost makes me feel nostalgic, and half tempts me to try my hand at a thriller myself. Given that there is an ancient Remington portable in the new flat, and that there is a roof terrace, some of the prerequisites are there. All I need is the gin and the talent (do they depend on each other, and if so, which is the prerequisite of the other?). Johnston started writing about Edinburgh whilst living in Greece, so there is a precedent.
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