Green shoots?

Well last week passed, as all things do, and I have repaired teeth, shorter (but not blonde, I chickened out of that) hair, and Sandy's cough has reduced to one bark per minue instead of three. The only person who hasn't improved is poor Iain and I'm about to take him into Aberdeen for surgery so - here's hoping.

Probably the most notable event in the course of days was the purchase of two NEW paperbacks. My goodness, aren't they expensive these days? Who in their right mind would buy new when there are peple like me to provide at a third of the price? The answer is of course people like me who have thousands of books but not one they want to read. I was looking for a Clive Cussler for Iain for after the operation when Sandy pointed at a cover nearbye and said 'One of our teachers told us that's the best book she's read for ages and she'd read it again.' It was Robert Harris: 'The Ghost.' I was so startled that he had actually listened to a teacher blethering about her recent reading matter and not only remembered what she said but recognised the book when he saw it, that I bought it. I've never been a fan of Harris, not because of his style but the subject matter. 'Archangel' left me cold because I couldn't relate to the events or the setting or the characters. It was a pleasant surprise to find myself engaged by and appreciative of this one about a ghost writer. I was sorry when it came to an end. I know someone who is ghosting for the first time and is finding it an interesting process (or a weird experience, depending on the day.) It's all very relevant too as prisoners come out of Guantanamo Bay to accuse the Uk of sanctioning torture. Relevance and topicality would normally put me off by the way. I don't much like the current event novel, so it had a lot of minuses against it but managed to pull me in nevertheless.

Maybe spring is stirring in my psyche after all, although the weather is grey, windy and dismal again today. I allowed myself to be dragged into a Vodaphone shop to update my ancient mobile phone and now have one I'm rather scared of but Sandy doesn't die of shame when I take it out to use. It's just like his so he can show me how to use it - but does so much too fast so I can't follow and have to secretly read the handbook. Youth!

I've also agreed to go with my writer/editor friend to a Arvon writing course in the autumn. There's one tailor made for the two of us; she writes poetry these days and although she has had books published she mourns that they are 'C*@p' and longs to be taken seriously for her poems. I just want to write fiction and would be really happy if someone would publish my c*@p, so to find a course called: 'Poetry and fiction' seemed too good to miss. It's in the Highlands so not far to go either.

Finally I have made a resolution to spend a long weekend in Samye Ling, the Tibetan Buddhist centre in the Borders, doing a short Vipassana meditation. I sat through a ten day course about 25 years ago and nearly disappeared up my own navel. I had three children under eight cavorting around me at that time and it had sounded like such bliss to be able to sit in silence for ten days. What I hadn't bargained for was the inside of my head which when explored was like a painting by Bosch. We weren't supposed to be exploring our minds of course, we were supposed to be emptying them, but you try not thinking of a giraffe once you've been told you mustn't!