Resting up

We've both had a pretty quiet day. Well, it wasn't so quiet this morning, as P and H popped over for breakfast from their "AirBnB", which was more bed than breakfast. We were happy to oblige, as clearing up after the party sufficiently to provide breakfast wasn't too difficult. The joys of the new, versatile and well equipped kitchen. After they'd set off back west, we finished clearing the place up, and ate a bit more of the food in the fridge. I also made a fridge slurry smoothie, mainly from the remnants of a fruit salad. It tasted particularly good. I realised that this was as I had tipped the last bits of a pot of double cream into it... Oh well, at least I used plain unsweetened yoghurt.

I've spent most of the rest of the day reading the book for tomorrow's book group. I got started a bit late, but I was advised by hazelh, who unfortunately cannot be there, that it wouldn't take me too long. Indeed it hasn't. However, it makes me think that my life has been pretty dull, so there wouldn't be much point in writing a memoir. I wonder if it's the fact that my life is dull that means that I feel I would have nothing to write about, or whether the line of causation runs in the other direction: i.e. because I lack the narrative "gene" it makes it seem like my life is rather dull (certainly in terms of brushes with death and in other respects as well it's not that dramatic). Perhaps that's the difference between writers and non-writers. I shall have to ask the book groupies tomorrow.