Well here I am, back in circulation though, as you can see, somewhat aged by the events of the past three months. My website, on the other hand, got all spiffed up during its vacation. Anyway, here’s the update.
Our final weeks in Venice were spent cleaning behind closets, reinstating the landlord’s wormy old furniture and saying our farewells. The climax was a fabulous party given by our friends Frank O’Halloran and Liesl Odenweller: food, wine, a musical tribute from the juniors, and a tear-jerking speech from Frank. Sentimentality so got the better part of good sense that I was moved to sing two verses of The Parting Glass. So after that we really had to leave town.
April 1st we closed the door for the last time on a strangely immaculate apartment. How many people had passed through that door? Hundreds, for sure. Family, friends, strangers who became friends, and a few blow-throughs who have probably now forgotten us. But onward and upward (or sideways, at least). We made landfall in Dublin and settled down to feather our new nest. All this was brought to an alarming halt on April 11 when Mr. F suffered another seizure and was blue-lighted to hospital with viral encephalitis. It was nearly six weeks before he was well enough to come home.
But enough of the organ recital… he is now home, Dublin is our new adventure and the writer’s life goes on. This summer sees the publication of a new novel, AT SEA, and the reissue of two oldies, THE TEN O’CLOCK HORSES and PERFECT MERINGUES.
On the basis that three Laurie Grahams in one year is quite enough for the reading public, I’m taking a breather before starting on a new project. I’ve sometimes complained about being on a treadmill, albeit a pleasant one, as treadmills go, and I figured it was up to me to get off it if that’s what I really need. So for a few months I’m going to play in my writer’s sandbox.
My first mission though is to try and salvage my potato patch. Planted April 3 and going strong, my first ever potato crop was my pride and joy. Until along came Derrick, who cuts the grass and who last week ran amuck with his edge-trimmer and decapitated my spuds. Will prayers and soft Irish rain be enough to save them? Time will tell.