After a hellish night of coughing despite the new sirop contre la toux, The Frenchman decided it’s now time to see Dr. K, if for no other reason that to get prescribed something stronger so that I can sleep. I’ve been going over the list of cold vs. flu symptoms. Although I have more cold symptoms, there are a couple of flu-like things about this, like the severe cramp I got yesterday morning in my leg that nearly immobilized me. And I periodically lose my appetite.

Anyway.

I finally finished Lost Boy, Lost Girl, which had been misplaced in my collection at home for some time. I found it when packing, but couldn’t bring it here. So, I bought a paperback of it at the British bookstore in Aix. It’s so great. Funny, but despite how Peter describes the teenage character Mark in the book, I kept picturing Benji, Peter and Susie’s handsome rascal of a son with whom I had a very funny encounter at the dry cleaner’s in Burbank. If you haven’t read it, it’s a terrific thriller that sits the natural and supernatural back to back, the two spines touching but not fusing. Unbelievably good.

We’ve also seen some movies lately:

I downloaded Kinky Boots from iTunes. It was incredibly sweet, albeit predictable, but, damn, do I love it when a man wears a fine pair of sexy boots!

Saving Grace was delightfully funny, a bit whimsical and had Brenda Blethyn, which is never bad. Ever. It really deserves a higher rating than it gets on the IMDB.

And then friends gave us a really big television and we rented The Constant Gardener. Now, you must understand that most televisions in France are no bigger than an Etch-a-Sketch. This television is actually about the same size as mine was in Los Angeles, which is to say, sufficiently large. Based on John le Carré’s novel of the same name, The Constant Gardner was very well done as a film — great acting, suspenseful, moving — but I was bothered by the way they glossed over the responsibility of the African government in what was going on in the plot. In one sentence, they minimized it to “someone got paid off” and then let us sit with that little burning coal in our mouths whilst the plate full of gold passed by.

“Though Thy Lips Are Pale” is creeping along but I’m really happy with it. After this, no more short stories for a long while. My agent will soon be finished with her notes on Mr. Wicker, and I need to finish this draft of Out of Body, obstacles or no.