Keeping cool and keeping it together.

Hot steamy weather again today that the thunderstorm Sunday didn't manage to clear. We don't often get thunderstorms in this part of the world for some reason. It happened whilst I was on my way to the riding stable to pick up Sandy. I stopped off at his house to feed a carrot to his rabbit and the heavens opened, all over me. Bunny was pleased with her organic carrot and fresh hay but didn't fancy a run in the garden. She's not daft.

When I eventually got up to the stables I discovered the Yard empty of children. They had all removed tack, washed off the ponies, returned them to the fields, and then vanished. The adults, too busy with their own horses and their gossiping, hadn't noticed. Yes, the children had been told that leaving the yard without an adult was strictly forbidden, but any child-wise adult would expect such restrictions to be forgotten when no eye is upon them and hectares of cool forest and river bank call out to them on a hot day.

The stable girls chose the one with the loudest voice to yell. I was standing much too close. My ears are still ringing. When the echoes had died there was an ominous silence. Brave attempts at jesting were made: 'I'll ring their necks when they get back.' 'Get in line!' Thoughts of the River Findhorn and its tendency, after heavy rain, for flash floods which cause it to rise from 0 - 10 feet in seconds gave the laughter a tense edge. One of the children, the tiny fierce Marina, could all too easily be swept away and I imagined Sandy trying to save her... It seemed like an age before voices were heard and small figures appeared in the distance plodding up the steep field. We counted. All present. Fear fled, anger followed. We left the owner of the riding stables, a venerable lady of 80 plus who has seen many many generations of children grow up alongside their ponies (and survive) met them first. We stood respectfully aside whilst she verbally, expertly, gave them a dressing down. Eventually a chastened and rather white Sandy joined me with head hanging to say 'Sorry Granny' in a very small voice. As he was by no means the oldest of the pack I decided he had had quite enough chastising and we headed for home in friendly unity. The Famous Five never had this trouble with adults.

Happily for both of us his grandfather had opened a nice bottle of white and got it deliciously cold; he had also bought a set of Asterix and Obelix DVD's so Sandy chilled out with sparkling elderflower in the 'music room' (which is in the cool basement of the house and has the DVD player with an enormous screen) whilst I declenched in the upstairs rooms with sympathetic adults and Gewurtztraminer. Sometimes I remember the French for 'to make tense:' Crisper. It expressed nicely how I was feeling. Crisped.

Yesterday the High Street, though having one of the inexplicable local holidays, was full and the shop did well. I sold the 6 vol Folio Society Proust for someone's light holiday reading and made lots of lesser sales, which is always good. Selling the pricey stuff is nice (I am not knocking it, heaven knows!) but selling a lot of small and easily replaced stock is better in the long run.

Today it has gone quiet again. I started to read the free copy of The London Review of Books sent to me recently to tempt me to sign up. It's full of articles and reviews about books I will never want to read, but there is one on Doris Lessing which looks interesting. I like these sentences: 'She has not, over the long haul, troubled her readers with complexities of design or of language; on the whole she prefers transparency.' That is precisely what I value about Lessing. It's not the fancy footwork one is meant to be dazzled by but the content, or, as the writer of the article says: 'The claim on ordinary readers is not that they should wonder at her virtuosity but that they should consider the truth of what she says.'

I also noticed a letter about a library of books which is very beautiful but seldom read, 'Like beauties no one dares ask for a dance.' The letter writer suggests that part of the problem is the publishers' preference for omnibus editions. 'You might want to read The Princess Casamamissa butit is off-putting to have to take down Henry James Novels 1886-90 Individual works hidden in an omnibus don't take their places in your memory as easily as a particular spine on a particular shelf.' He goes on to say that good thin paper has the virtue of being portable and that portability is a quality to be valued in a book. Making the book large cancels out this attribute . Whilst paperbacks offer easy portage the paper is poor qualty, yellows fast and if often read they fall to pieces, whereas a well-bound hardback is a pleasure to handle and a good investment.

Makes sense to me.