Well, my mission to have a whole week of DFW was a resounding failure; turns out he's not at all compatible with noisy family life. I got stuck in when we got back, mind, as did the baby. Page 141 absolutely astounded her:
I did read the Alex Keegan book in Dublin, though. And I had bubble baths and went shopping and did that thing where the fish eat your feet and ate a catastrophe of cakes. We drove down to Tipperary and visited my uncle, whom I haven't seen in a very long time, and Seren saw her first donkeys. I met an assortment of babies even newer than my own (hello, Maya; hello Kate!), including one still in utero, so I'll have to go back in February to see him/her on the far side. And my nephew was as ace as ever:
For the first time in about eighteen months, we managed to fly without ash clouds or snowstorms fucking us over, though the Ryanair ground-staff in Dublin did try to make us pay €60 for going over our luggage allowance, which only adds to my suspicion that their scales are maliciously tipped, since there's no WAY the extra baby-clothes and the couple of new toys that we accumulated in Dublin added up to over three kilos. We (meaning Andy) had to empty the case and the carry-on and put on several layers of t-shirts before phoning my sister to loop back round to the airport so we could fill the back of her car with our extraneous stuff and get her to post it over to us later. Ryanair, we hate you so much. DFW probably didn't help the weight thing, though.
Speaking of which.
I'd left The Pale King on top of my mum's kitchen radiator on Tuesday morning while I fed the baby, and my niece came over and looked at it. 'Whose book is this?'
'That's mine,' I said. 'I'm reading it.'
She's five-and-a-half with a year of big school under her belt. The book's enormous. She had a flick through. Six hundred pages. 'Is there nothing good at all in it?'
'There's no pictures. Only reading.'
'Only reading?' She closed it and looked at the cover. 'What book is it?'
'It's good. It's by a man called David Foster Wallace.'
She shook her head and dropped the book back on top of the radiator. 'That's not a lovely name,' she said, before heading out to make mud-and-grass pies in the garden with her cousin.
Not much else to say, really.