July 26

     I finished Haddon's book last night, and loved it to the end. Two little bits of criticism: I didn't believe C.'s father was the kind of man who could murder anything--and if he were, there was nothing the author could do to make me like him again; and the ending seemed a bit rushed. But don't they all, anymore? Is this due to authors' desire to be done with their work, for godssakes, or is this the result of some confab with an editor who feels the need to stuff as much information as possible in at the end? Regardless, a great read.
    Last night, my husband and I pulled on a couple of warm sweatshirts and went to an outdoor performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor--thoroughly enjoyable on its own, but enhanced, of course, by a couple of bottles of homemade Merlot. Falstaff was a hilarious, dissolute fellow, and the wives themselves were quite merry. The doctor suitor had trouble managing his French accent, and showed an alarming preference for Italian now and again. Otherwise, it was one of the best community performances I have seen. It could be that I was all too easy to please after attending my husband's twenty-year-class reunion, a dry, dreary event that lacked the alcohol and music needed to properly lubricate the participants. Mostly, we stood in little clumps and nodded at each other while our eyes glazed over. A few pictures of kids were passed around and we did our best to act interested, but really, no children are as beautiful or talented as one's own, so hang all the rest of them!
    A cold, rainy Monday it is. Garden work is out and the house is clean, so I suppose I have no excuse to avoid the manuscript.