For no reason I can think of, a word comes to me as I wake up this morning. It is the french word "degingander", ( the first "g" is soft as in the "j" sound of the English word "judge"). I like it, not for its meaning - ungainly, gangling, lanky - but for its rhythm, and the way that its sound suggests so well what it describes.
On the 50p shelf outside Hall's bookshop, I pick up a biography of Paul Verlaine. Its opening words are: "It is not an easy thing to write a life of Paul Verlaine. It is not easy; and it is not quite necessary." Not a promising beginning. But then it is by Harold Nicholson, a writer of some distinction. So what the hell! It's only 50p!
A friend calls unexpectedly. He bubbles over with anecdotes and adds a little warmth to a cold day.