Knausgaard, again. South for Christmas.

Knausgaard is getting boring. I'm just turning the pages, pretending to read, because psychologically it is almost impossible for me to stop reading something before the end. ( Ok, I should learn.) I took tome 2 to a doctor's appointment: she had said, "Bring a book, I'm not very punctual," which was an understatement. It was two hours before my turn came, two hours after the appointment time. Fortunately the doctor was smart, humorous. It doesn't help to have a book when you are getting mad. And there are only so many issues of Elle magazine you can bear to read in one afternoon.

Tomorrow off to the south of France for two weeks. Looking forward to lots of hikes, up the Mont Ventoux etc. The house belonged to my husband's great grandfather. It was last decorated by my mother-in-law and is a museum of a certain southern French style, the furniture and kitchen stuff that got relegated to the country when their Marseille house was updated. It's dans son jus, as they say.