Wednesday was good.
I read The Wasteland on the train to London. Not having had it beaten to death at school or university, and coming at it fresh as a writer, I can't get enough of it.
I had been invited to visit a literary agent to 'talk about my writing', and did so with great interest.
Then treated self to a glass of bubbly over a solitary lunch.
Then went to see the Russian exhibition at The Royal Academy.
Then met a friend, a poet, for tea at a nearby emporium.
Then read The Wasteland again on the train home. It holds such perfection in every phrase, every pause.