There seems to be a national obsession with lists at the moment. A couple of weeks ago the winner of the title Best Scottish Book or something similar was announced (Grassic Gibbon, Sunset Song). To my horror and the horror of most people I know, Harry Potter got in on that list too (God knows ...) but James Hogg didn't! I sometimes wonder whether Harry Potter will last as even as long as Swallows and Amazons, for example. I rather hope not. Harry Potter hype is tedious in the extreme, and while the books are good children's books they are not great literature.

But I digress: yesterday another list winner was announced: Britain's Best Painting (which began as the Britain's best-loved painting apparently), launched by the BBC Today programme in the summer. Nominations had to be from paintings in British galleries, with only one nomination from each artist to reach the shortlist or something complicated. The final ten were selected by a panel of experts, and contained no Picasso, no Lucien Freud, and none more recent than Hockney. The winner was a Turner: The Fighting Temeraire; The Haywain was second - the appeal of that picture eludes me; and the Arnolfini portrait was 3rd or maybe 4th. Very very very dull in short.

Things are progressing here too - if a little slowly. Last night I had my first Tai Chi class with a new teacher. I was very confused - actually very disappointed by the class which was very different from my last; but I'll persevere with it. I had dinner with Himself afterwards which was a treat - as it always is. I want to send a him a quote from Iris Murdoch - a way of saying he makes me feel luckyluckylucky, but I daren't. Odd how I seem to be able to be candid about how much I love him with everyone BUT him. The quote:
Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck.

It's hard to believe I'll be back at school by this time next week. I have an awful lot to do in the interim. I lost this morning to reviewing an article for a journal. My co reviewer sent a message last week in which she raved about it and suggested it was published almost untouched. I read it this morning, found it vacuous; sent an email to explain why; and worried about the outcome as we are supposed to reach consensus before returning the paperwork etc. to the journal's editorial board, and that didn't seem achievable in the time available. Half an hour later I received an email in which the reviewer explained she'd changed her mind after reading my report and agreed that the article should be binned. I'm now veering between guilt at having inadvertently browbeaten her into acceding; and feeling cross that she hadn't done the work properly. I have this vague notion that this journal editing is doing me good; or is going to stand me in good stead later or something. I have no idea where this idea comes; nor why I don't stop persisting in the belief and give up the post. While the time investment is minimal, but the emotional costs are disproportionate!

I want to visit the Gauguin exhibition on Sunday I love living this close to Edinburgh and Glasgow and suspect when I next move it will be into a city - dogs/work permitting of course.