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First of all, the tennis. I am watching as much of the French Open on British Eurosport as I can. As I did the Australian Open, of which I saw a lot, considering the time difference. Unfortunately, that was due to insomnia and ill health.
But anyway, the French. It's an interesting one, with the fascinating triad of Federer, Nadal and Djokovic dominating - it's funny how commentators agree that the latter should be bracketed with F & N, but end up talking about the other two exclusively in the context of the final. Again. Well, there's some sort of gravitational pull about it. What I tend to do is support Federer in the French and Nadal in Wimbledon (although I'm not an automatic supporter of the underdog). This always falls apart by Wimbledon, because Federer didn't get the French and then he'll go and play sublime tennis and I feel he deserves to win.
Until yesterday, I'd have said that the women's draw was open with about six potential winners, following Henin's retirement. Two down, well, one really, cause I didn't see Venus winning the French. It's open to whoever grabs it. Although it's probable that the women's quarters will produce better tennis than the final. Again.
And a whinge: is the presenter of 'Game. Set and Mats' related to someone? How did he get the gig, exactly? He's terrible. He flubs every link, throwing in hesitations and 'of course' and then closing the sentence in a nonsensical way. MW sits there, smiling graciously, doing his best to respond to what might be questions from the native speaker butchering his language, but it's PAINFUL.
And now for the shopping part. I went to a real, proper second-hand bookshop yesterday - five rooms, all crammed with books, so crammed that you had to manouver around fruit crates of books that hadn't made it to the shelves. I helped relieve the premium on space a little - a very little considering how many books there were, and this certainly wasn't as big a haul as last year's Hay haul.
Amongst other things, I bought a May Baldwin, an Ethel Talbot (here's hoping it isn't dreadful) and an Angela Brazil. There were a few Brazils there, but I already owned them. (Yes, I took the precaution of bringing a list of books I know I definitely don't own to avoid buying doublers).
When I first walked into the shop, I thought I'd hit the motherlode: apart from the feel of the shop itsle, the children's books section were on the right as you walked in - familiar bindings and dust-jackets like veins of precious stones to be tapped. I approached, and realised that they were actually mixed, and as ever, there were more boys own stories than girls own (is it because there are fewer collectors?). I don't think I've ever seen as many Jennings books for sale in one place before.
I'm sure I'll get to the books in due course. As it happens, the next book on my pile(s) to read is an Angela Brazil. In between the tennis.
But anyway, the French. It's an interesting one, with the fascinating triad of Federer, Nadal and Djokovic dominating - it's funny how commentators agree that the latter should be bracketed with F & N, but end up talking about the other two exclusively in the context of the final. Again. Well, there's some sort of gravitational pull about it. What I tend to do is support Federer in the French and Nadal in Wimbledon (although I'm not an automatic supporter of the underdog). This always falls apart by Wimbledon, because Federer didn't get the French and then he'll go and play sublime tennis and I feel he deserves to win.
Until yesterday, I'd have said that the women's draw was open with about six potential winners, following Henin's retirement. Two down, well, one really, cause I didn't see Venus winning the French. It's open to whoever grabs it. Although it's probable that the women's quarters will produce better tennis than the final. Again.
And a whinge: is the presenter of 'Game. Set and Mats' related to someone? How did he get the gig, exactly? He's terrible. He flubs every link, throwing in hesitations and 'of course' and then closing the sentence in a nonsensical way. MW sits there, smiling graciously, doing his best to respond to what might be questions from the native speaker butchering his language, but it's PAINFUL.
And now for the shopping part. I went to a real, proper second-hand bookshop yesterday - five rooms, all crammed with books, so crammed that you had to manouver around fruit crates of books that hadn't made it to the shelves. I helped relieve the premium on space a little - a very little considering how many books there were, and this certainly wasn't as big a haul as last year's Hay haul.
Amongst other things, I bought a May Baldwin, an Ethel Talbot (here's hoping it isn't dreadful) and an Angela Brazil. There were a few Brazils there, but I already owned them. (Yes, I took the precaution of bringing a list of books I know I definitely don't own to avoid buying doublers).
When I first walked into the shop, I thought I'd hit the motherlode: apart from the feel of the shop itsle, the children's books section were on the right as you walked in - familiar bindings and dust-jackets like veins of precious stones to be tapped. I approached, and realised that they were actually mixed, and as ever, there were more boys own stories than girls own (is it because there are fewer collectors?). I don't think I've ever seen as many Jennings books for sale in one place before.
I'm sure I'll get to the books in due course. As it happens, the next book on my pile(s) to read is an Angela Brazil. In between the tennis.
