Saturday and Monday - Ian and me

I finished reading Saturday by Ian McEwan today and was very impressed. This is definitely literary fiction and I thought I wouldn’t enjoy it. When I saw how McEwan is describing in minute detail his fictional hero’s activities, (including washing and visiting the loo and a bit of brain surgery,) I was reminded of Virginia Woolf and how I struggled to get through all her changes of viewpoint and stream of consciousness style of writing. But Saturday wasn’t like that, first and foremost because we remained in Henry Perowne’s viewpoint throughout the book and from that position, were able to find out about the people most important to him, and get to know them. So the characterisation was good, and so was the structure. But I found it interesting how much the hero fits into the one day. On a purely practical level, he wakes in the early hours of Saturday, plays squash; visits his mother; goes to hear his son at a concert; cooks a meal for the family; goes to the hospital where he works; I've edited out the other crucial things that occur, in case anyone’s reading it, but basically he does a whole lot more in any one day than I'd be prepared to do.

Monday was a fairly full day, and I tried to imagine turning that into a novel. But would you be interested in how I showered and washed my hair and put on my pink underwear (courtesy of Michael’s new red pyjamas, which I washed in too hot a wash, with said underwear) changed the sheets, towels and pyjamas, took M to the station and visited Sainsbury’s, including having a sandwich there, which to my irritation, I discovered on opening it, was white, not wholemeal. Recycled my plastics and noted that there’s now a container for metal foil; came home and made a vegetarian nut terrine for the next visit of one of my children, froze it, and then made our own meal. Discovered, once the heat of the oven had died down that something was wrong with the heating and M investigated and took off the front panel, before deciding he couldn’t do anything about it. Prepared my books for the next day, when Jennifer and I would be having a Goldenford book sale at the Farmers’ Market, High Street, Guildford. The rain poured down and that night, when it had abated, a high wind blew. I buried myself in the bedclothes and anticipated the sale the next day with foreboding.