Departure.

I'm currently engaged in a gentle centrifuging around my apartment, a process by which it is to be hoped that eventually only the things I need for the next month will drain conveniently into my suitcase. Tomorrow I leave a place known for over 300 days of sunshine a year, and go to one with... well, I don't know the details, because it's hardly the kind of thing the Ayrshire tourist board would advertise, but it has to be about that many days of rain.

Having finally finished my course proposal, I can leave all work behind at least for the duration of the journey, and read something just for pleasure. I went to the Tattered Cover this evening to buy a book, and came out with three: a new collection of stories by Margaret Atwood, The Tent; a new novel by Sherman Alexie, Flight; and a novel I just stumbled across, featuring a come-to-life teddy bear being arrested for a series of bombings, Winkie by Clifford Chase. Now I have the problem of working out which to take on board, and also the logical absurdity of taking all of these books back to a place where I am going, in part, to pack up and send to myself all of the books I have that are there already.

One other book will travel with me: a slim Faber and Faber volume of poems by Louis MacNeice, selected by Michael Longley. I hardly ever read poetry, but sometimes slip this book into my bag when it seems it might be a good idea to have some reading material with me just in case. This afternoon I had it when on the bus, and was reminded again of why I like MacNeice's poems so much. They read like songs. They are so rhythmic that they can sing me through moments of boredom or distraction. Today I was caught by the last stanza of "Meeting Point" -

Time was away and she was here / And life no longer what it was, / The bell was silent in the air / And all the room one glow because / Time was away and she was here.