Life at № 42 by E.M. Coutinho
Alagna was at Versailles last week. Magnificent. I don’t go to things like that anymore because- because I don’t like leaving the house unnecessarily, or travelling, or pretending I’m interested in what the people sitting next to me are saying.
I’m listening to Sharon Van Etten’s I Wish I Knew.
I don’t particularly enjoy holiday seasons. Phantom limb syndrome by imposition. People always ask me about my family. I do my best not to disconcert anyone by not saying I don’t really know or care. That’s partly a lie. I know because they’re somewhat public people.
The calendar for next year is excellent. Number 42 will be visited by wonderful people. The visiting season in Andalusia normally started in July (and ended in September.) As I rapidly approach 40 I feel that’s a waste. I intend to have a season that goes from March to October. Livers be damned.
1:12 am. That’s late. The other day a rather exceptional businesswoman and friend told me my sense of last chapter-hood was all wrong. She says her life began in her forties. I answered that obviously she hadn’t lived my 20’s or 20’s, or 20’s- or late teens for that matter.
We shouldn’t get mad at people on the internet. Not in a profound sense, anyway.
We visited a wonderful 16th century building today in Castres; to see a Louis Philippe table, in an attic. I got annoyed at Mike giving me instructions on the fair method in which we’d both carry it down so I grabbed it and stormed down carrying it on my own. I’m 2 or 3 kg. overweight right now, so it probably did me good. Not well, good. There’s no well at number 42. I wonder why?
I’m tired. I feel tired.