I am fulfilling my own prophecy in finding it an endless struggle to go to stuff and have time to write about going to stuff. It may be one or the other. A while ago I went to see La Clique at Bobino for €10 (standing, lounging, perching or otherwise squashing up tickets, rather than actual seats, but still.) It made me want to keep a pocketful of silver stars on me at all times and toss a shower of them in the air whenever I do anything remotely impressive. It's in London over Christmas, so if you're looking for presents of the 'doing not having' variety, I can thoroughly recommend it. My favourite act:


Reading List

Midnight Express, by Billy Hayes
The story of a young American hippie's 5-year stay in a Turkish prison for possession of hash, and his subsequent escape. Translated into French so simple even I can understand it. Quite heart-warming in a way, I think there's a movie too.
Score: Two stars

The Body Artist, by Don DeLillo
Stark. A grieving woman tells stories with her body by forcing it under the most perfect control, and an idiot man can only speak in the words of others. Gets under your skin. Full of images that stick, and half-conscious repetition. One to read again when I have more life experience.

Score: Three stars.

The Sorrows of an American, by Siri Hustvedt

Paul Auster's Norwegian wife writes wryly and wittily about intellectuals in New York coping with the past, having dinner parties with each other, etc. It's the kind of book where someone would find a lost childhood toy in an attic and talk about it for an entire chapter, including flashbacks. Protagonist has a respected and lucrative yet, importantly, not soulless profession: in this case psychiatry.

Score: Four and a half stars, lose half a one for being the famous novelist wife of a famous novelist. Pah.