Then in flops through the letter box the LRB (London Review of Books). This is an excellent thing, I immediately pour a drink and sit in my chair and luxuriate in both. The usually horrible Deyan Sudjic writes strangely well on Leon Krier, who is, psychologically, an object of fascination for me. There's a good piece on whether bi-polar is bi-polar or not, and a lovies piece on Montgomery Clift where I would prefer more on the sex and the drinking. And they are all written long which is good, you get into them like a bath.
I've given up the newspapers, the LRB every two weeks is quite enough, along with the documentaries on the TV. This is the perfect afternoon, along with the news that Julie has just wind-falled a few thousand quid.