It's the last Bank Holiday weekend of the year. Suddenly I feel determined to squeeze the marrow out of it; mostly because this week saw me start a new job, and after a week of meeting lots of new people whose names I'll have to be reminded of for the first few weeks, this 3-day weekend gives me time to recharge before the bull is grabbed by the proverbial. There's lots to do; when is there not? Anyway. I shall be spending tomorrow in St James's Square in the concentrated bookishness that is the London Library; writing; re-immersing myself into 'the book'. There's also a lot I want to read. Can I write 10,000 words AND read Ben Lerner's Leaving the Atocha Station, The Prophet by Michael somebody, Junky by William Burroughs and the new Alice Munro short story in this week's New Yorker? Oh, and meet a few friends lest I'm considered an impossible loner? Doubtful. I also had the urge this evening to re-read Orwell's Down and Out in Paris & London; such a wonderful book. It's better not fall into the trap, though, of expecting too much of myself this weekend, which will only defeat the purpose of it, but to slowly, leisurely, take it as it comes.