I was going to write about so many things: artichokes and lemons and calendula infusions, and my favourite Canadian novel, but I'm too busy reading Mansfield Park.
Today was cleaning-the-bathroom day, but who can scrub grout when Fanny is being bullied into marriage with the personable but odious Mr Crawford? It's not like I don't know what happens, because I have read it at least half a dozen times, but every time the suspense kills me.
And I like Fanny, though I don't know why, because she cries all the time. Amelia Smedley cries constantly throughout Vanity Fair, and I just want to slap her, because she is so stupid and helpless, but I sympathise with Fanny. Maybe because there are not many heroines who are shy and awkward, who blush at all the wrong moments, and who are unfashionably exhausted after half an hour of walking in the shrubbery. She is the anti-heroine, with only her kind heart to recommend her. But that is enough for her to triumph over the Mean Girls. Moral integrity, and a fondness for books and gardens. It's all you need...
8 hours ago