Paris, 23 May 2022

A few days in London, my first trip since the plague, and back to Paris on the Eurostar last Friday. There had been a weather event in northern France: electrical storms that shorted train lines, resulting in cancellations and delays and, most comically, in retrospect, train substitutions; ‘You are now in car 13, any seat,’ the woman at the Information Desk in the Departure lounge at St Pancras said. A sprint…in short.

Now it is Monday and rain is falling, making rain’s lovely street music, a lyric accompaniment to the jackhammers, trash collectors and whatnot of everyday. Zinc roofs shine. Unsure what to expect weather-wise for the rest of the day, I have opted to remain for now in my red nightgown, which, anyway, could be a dress. Mornings are for writing and reading, today my usual, with the addition of Derek Mahon’s An Autumn Wind, found on my shelf. It looks unread: when, where did I buy it? I often keep the price tag, so I know, but in this case, no tag.