Enid Blyton

I have spent the weekend at my parents country house. It was nice, and I ate a lot, which is usually the case when visiting my parents. I also reread some books I liked as a little boy, books by Enid Blyton. I can readily understand why I read them with such eagerness. They are about children who, in beautiful surroundings, meet kindhearted adults who live in wonderful houses. When they are not sleeping or eating delicious meals they are walking in secret tunnels or playing around with cute animals. It surely must be every child's idea of paradise. It was mine in any event, and even today, when I can see through the simplistic plot lines and dull characterizations, and even be annoyed by the patronizing view of anyone who isn't a beaming Englishman from the better classes, I can still feel drawn towards this world. Damn it, I want to be a part of it.

It has been yet another hot day, I wonder if it ever will cool down in my apartment. Maybe I ought to invest in air conditioning. Now I'm going to have some ice cream, and maybe put my underwear in the freezer. Marilyn did that in The Seven Year Itch, and what's good enough for her is good enough for me.