A week or so ago Russell and I had a delightfully
unhurried lunch at La Cigale where we sampled lamb pie (delicious), chicken
& leek tart (not up to their usual standard) and an assortment of almond
and chocolate pastries (delicious).
Russell talked about his recent four month
sojourn in London and his season ticket for The Proms. His aim was to attend every concert but he
admitted to missing one or two on days when there were important exhibitions to
visit.
Then we discussed the progress of his
sorting of books prior to the upcoming move from Remuera to Mission Bay. He told me proudly that he had `got rid of’
fifty seven cartons of books and was now left only with the ones he really and
truly wanted as well as those he definitely needed of course. I had a brief moment of
regret that I had not dropped by for a quick browse before the cartons had been dispatched to the Book Fair.
Then having got onto the topic of books we
talked about writing and I delivered my current rave regarding those who
indulge in writing that is so clever I am lost as to what they are attempting
to communicate and Russell listened attentively before gently reminding me that
most genres need to go through development periods. He mildly mentioned Defoe, Dickens and James
Joyce almost in the same sentence and I decided to think before delivering my
next rave which was undoubtedly going to concern the state of gay marriage in
New Zealand or the policies of the Labour Party.
As we left the restaurant speaking of when
we might meet again Russell said, `Oh by the way I got your email about your
blog but I haven’t got around to checking it out yet.’
`No worries – have you read my book yet?’
`Which one?’ there was a guilty edge to his
voice.
`Eight Ten to Charing Cross,’ I said.
`No – not yet….’
I reflected that it was just as well he is
a good friend.
`That’s all right,’ I lied.
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