Younger Son and Girlfriend have gone
swimming with sharks diving in the Red Sea this week. After a time when it looked as if they might not be able to go, and then, today, a flight delayed by 5 hours, they're finally in the air and on their way. So Husband and I have the house to ourselves for a week. I've just put dinner on to cook and it's very hard to cook for two.
Dinner tonight is of my own invention. Its working title is Moroccan Lamb Shanks on Orange Stuff although I think that needs a little thought.
What else? Ah, yes, book and CD reviews.
When I read that Ray Davies (of the Kinks) had a new CD out I put it on my Christmas list. Called See My Friends it features remakes of old Kinks songs sung by Ray Davies and friends (as the title suggests), including Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bon Jovi and others I've never heard of.
On first listening I wasn't keen and wondered if it had been a good choice but it's grown on me and now I love it. All the favourites are there including Lola and Waterloo Sunset as well as less familiar (to me) ones. The new takes on the songs are great and the words, of course, remain excellent and as relevant today as they were back in the 60s.
Bookwise I've just finished One Dance in Paris, which can only be described as a fairy tale. It takes a tall skinny streetwise girl from Boston and makes her the star of the Folies Bergere in Paris via a circuitous route. She's a nice character and it's an entertaining story as long as you're prepared to suspend disbelief.
I still haven't read A Prayer for Owen Meany. Alun mentioned it when he was still working with me so it must be about 2 years ago now. He was amazed that I hadn't read it. Not read it? I hadn't even heard of it. I must check out the author and look in the library when I return One Dance. Also on my bedside table is Catcher in the Rye, another classic I haven't read. Husband gave it to me for Christmas. (I bought it as part of a 3 for the price of 2 offer in Waterstone's and gave it to him to give to me.)
Now I'm definitely running out of things to write and the ironing is shouting. Phooey.