As we drove up from Perpignan yesterday, I missed the first motorway access, and so we stayed on the old N9 as far as the Leucate junction. Even in those few miles, we saw numerous ladies of the afternoon by the roadside. It being the end of October, the lurid scarlet or violet frocks we saw so many of back in the summer on the N9 near Béziers have given way to a uniform of black miniskirts and leather jackets. The local paper is full of adverts offering the services of call girls: 'forte poitrine, English spoken, accepte carte bleue'. This is big business. But then, back in the 80s, BT had to employ people to clear the calling cards out of London phone boxes as well.
The day dawns wet. Fortunately, there was some heat left in the fire when I came down, so it is now drying the logs: I think it's catching again. Fortunately, it is not too cold outside, so the room's getting up to a decent temperature. I think it's an out-with-the-paints day: no point planning any outdoor activity more ambitious than driving to the baker's.
Oh, by the way, I'm finished Bookering for the year. I finished Narcopolis yesterday on the plane. The subject was depressing (though not without flashes of humour throughout) and the narrative style odd and full of Hindi vocabulary. (In that last respect, the new touch-screen Kindle is helpful: touch and hold on a word and up pops the Oxford dictionary definition. It knew a few of them, but I don't see much use for my new-found Hindi narcotics terminology.) Maybe I'm setting my sights too high - I like a good read rather than one that leaves me fretting over what the devil I'm going to say when I have to write the essay. I'm now reading a whodunit.
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