Life has not slowed down much, here at Chez Peepee. What I envisioned as a leisurely, lazy summer, full of wine, knitting, and laughter, has been, well, rather frantic.
The whole house is a mess, there's wine to be bottled, six individual socks on the go (only one is a second sock) and well, I'm sure I'm the person in the neighbourhood whose lawn gets snickered at.
And I've chosen it to be this way, and for right now, I'm OK with with it.
I'm sure you are all wondering what has happened.
And no, I'm not drinking a whole lot. Certainly less than usual.
What I am doing is reading. Novels. For fun.
And this is the confession part. I'm re-reading a series of novels I first discovered in 1994. When I was so poor that I couldn't afford to buy the next one, and actually stood in Coles reading the latest installment, because the waiting list at the library was a year long.
Why am I reading novels that I have read before (to be honest, read just about every year since I was able to afford my own copies in 1997)?
Because I am a romantic (and it galls me to admit that, oh yes it does). I am a sucker for star-crossed lovers, or circumstances that won't give two people a bloody break. I secretly wish (or perhaps not so secretly, now) that there was someone out there that I could love throughout time, and that that person would love me back.
Well, there's not. But that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy reading about someone else:
I love, love, love this series of books. They've got everything - history, humour, a strong heroine, a dashing hero. The absolute best part is, I lived in Scotland for a time, and the 18th century was my favourite period of study. Bonnie Prince Charlie and all his lot. Diana Gabaldon has done a fine job of making 18th century Scotland come alive. I hear the voices of my friends in my head when I read these books. And that is perhaps the best reason of all.