Probably a mistake, but here we go. right now a feature of Fiona (She Who Must Be Indulged) and my bedroom life – steady there with the heavy breathing – involves a nightly chapter of Tim Moore’s excellent Continental Drifter (though Amazon seems to want to call it The Grand Tour for some bizarre reason). A tale of confusion and penny-pinching following the trail of Thomas Coryate – the first grand tourist who walked to Venice and back in 1608. With Moore dressed in a purple velvet suit, and driving an incontinent and leprous Rolls Royce. Which probably seemed like a good idea at the time. But I digress.
This partaking of Mr Moore in the bedroom takes the form of Fiona reading aloud in the style of Jackanory, only without all the different voices. If you’ve never tried it before I can WHOLEHEARTEDLY recommend getting your spouse to read to you. Very soothing. And you don’t have to wonder what all the bloody sniggering is about while you’re trying to fight your way through Crime And Bloody Punishment. (OK, the ‘Bloody’ is mine, but come on: you ever tried to read it?)
This is only our second Tom Moore, but previous recitations by the Fiona have included all of James Herriot The Irish RM (closest I could get) and a number of other light reading style thingies.
Fiona does all the reading as I suck hamsters at it. Which bodes less than well for my ‘career as a successful and charismatic writer person’ pretensions. Odd, because when I was a thesp, I would memorise vast soliloquies and deliver them to a sea of wet seats. But ask me to read aloud from a page and it all comes out wrong. I blame my English Teacher at Westhill Academy, who was nice enough in her way, but made me read the part of Macbeth, when I was a shy and tiny teenager, all the way through to the bitter end.
My plan then is to learn bits of Cold Granite like a play and pretend to read it at the time. Cunning no?