Took a call yesterday from Nick, my younger, non-blogging brother. Nick isn’t in good health and such calls are rare - as I might add, to my shame, are calls in the other direction.
He apologises for wasting my time as if my time were more valuable than his. I reassure him but it’s no use; that’s his way. He’s phoning to chat (albeit briefly) and I take the portable upstairs and lie on the bed. Soon I’ll get to talk about sailing, something he introduced me to late in life and which affected me enormously. There we are, above, in happier times. He’s in blue.
But it’s not sailing. Conrad (Sir Hugh), our middle brother has been telling him about a book I’ve written: about flying, in France. It sounds interesting, Nick says. His kind of subject. He’d like to read it but admits his eyes are going and this would be difficult. I am, as our mother would say, heart-slufted.
I should add: I never ask my nearest and dearest to read my stuff. But if they ask they can. Conrad asked.
I say I’ll investigate getting someone to read it, create a recording. Nick says that would be nice and rings off. I reflect. I need an acting voice (I’m anti-amateur), it’ll take hours and will cost a bomb. I don’t care. It’s the least I can do. The ideal reader would be an American woman, like the central character. An American voice would catch the resonances. But one which can handle the French words and the poetry.
Mrs RR tells me not to be finicky. But this is the Internet and I’ve access to worldwide resources.