Started the day with nice run by the lake. Nelly Furtado in my ears, mountains around me and it's all ridiculously beautiful. The view (which I am unable to show here because of lack of USB cabel. Instead shitty photo from the french tourist office. Enjoy!) will never stop to amaze me. Finished with Swedish breakfast (knackebrod and polarkaka, yummie!) and afterwards I just sat in the balcony while pretending to study. Looked up and suddenly saw the postman standing outside the gates with a big parcel in his hands. Ringing and ringing on the doorbell, but of course no one answered because no one one was me. So I leant over the balcony and shouted: "Bonjour!" French postman looked every where around him, as if expecting the little voices in his head to turn up and take him from behind. Shouted again, this time louder and eventually he looked up with a puzzled expression on his face. Made an attempt to read the strange name on the parcel. "Ber...Ber..."
"Berndtsson!!! My parcel from Sweden arrived!!! Jumped (ok, ran down the stairs) and oh, my darling stuff was here! Loads of books, earphones and my missing black partytop. Sometimes parents are good to have.
'The hippopotamus' by Steven Fry among the books. Fell in love with it after reading the foreword. Why has no one introduced me to this man before? Apparently the book is about Ted Wallace; "an old, sour, womanising, cantankerous, whisky-sodden beast". Sounds and is excactly the type of book I would enjoy. Especially like the way Fry describes his writing process: "If the day has gone well I'll dissapear upstairs for a round of light celebratory masturbation".
Haha! More of that, please.
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