Sunday night is... Thelonious Monk

Twenty-seven and a half minutes of Thelonius Monk, Concert in Denmark, three tracks Lulu's Back in Town; Don't Blame Me; Epistrophy 

That clean, just off the button sound that resists all possible invitations to appear on time and which is itself the style and the man. Let everyone else swing, I'll stumble and invent. I love Epistrophy.

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Yesterday's Bloomsday on BBC was an absolute wonder, virtuosic, moving, its head in books, its feet firmly on the daily ground and grind. Having listened to most of it, then watched an hour of Satantango I was left exhausted but delighted. And, of course, work and reading in between.

More on that later. Today, working in the morning. Requests to use a chapter of Miklós Vajda's beautiful memoir, Picture of My Mother in an American Frame that I translated for The Hungarian Quarterly, for Best European Fiction of 2013, edited by Alexander Hemon.

Working towards a project with the poet Carol Watts, so reading through her work. And other stuff to write. As ever.

Today a suggestion from A and N that we take a walk by the sea. We have said yes too often and called off, so this time it was a yes. Drove to Winterton and walked about 90 minutes along the beach then back on the other side of the dunes, observing sanderlings, terns, one seal, and a lark,  followed by a meal big enough to sink a large sea-going vessel, even though it was just the one course.

This is all very miscellaneous. I must try to be less miscellaneous.

Hungary? Don't ask.