Woke to a lovely misty morning.
Sunday is a day of rest, even on a writer’s retreat. My one criticism of the properties in Polruan has always been that the hot water supplies seem to be hit and miss. In my usual place I am faced with the choice between a bath in one-and-a-half inches of luke warm water, or a shower that may or may not run hot and may or may not stay running hot depending on whether you stumble upon the right magic word and whether the personal hygiene gods are in a good mood that day. I suspect the person who invented the Scandinavian alternating hot and cold water health system got the idea when staying in Polruan
The other problem is that these are old cottages and wherever I stay there’s always an extra-low doorway. I’m a quiet, mild-mannered man who doesn’t normally swear, but I fear the people staying next door think I’m a raging psychopath because the only sounds they must hear from my side are regular eruptions of violent cursing whenever I enter or leave the kitchen. So far whenever they see me they smile nervously and move quickly on.
So, occasional bouts of mild concussion aside, it has been a relaxing day: a leisurely read of the papers, saving the sport section till lunchtime to be read over a couple of pints of Tribute at the Lugger on the quay. I’ve noticed that only about a quarter of the folk here have local accents. Most of the time it sounds like you are in Hampstead or Richmond – because sadly only posh, wealthy folk can afford to buy houses in places like this now.
The only blip on the day has been a confectionery crisis, when a stock-take revealed that a large bag of Munchies, earmarked to last about three days, had been fully consumed by the end of Saturday. I suspect poltergeist activity.
Early start tomorrow on the exciting, soon-to-be best-selling children’s novel I’m working on!