Still reading John Irving, The Cider House Rules and, as always, I am in awe of the man. How does he manage constantly to reference back to certain details in ways that work despite the details seeming inconsequential when they first occur? Wilbur Larch is deliciously eccentric, and Homer reminds me of Henry Mackenzie's Man of Feeling. The tale is chronologically ordered and yet seems to sweep in wide circles, like the circles in you make with your arms in Tai Chi.

Today I walked into town, looking for a birthday card. I wandered around a couple of charity shops hoping to find good books. Last time I found several; this time none. But that's just fine. That's what being able to wander allows for - not the feeding frenzy of a trip to Borders of Waterstones, when the problem is that of needing to cull the pile you've gathered as you browse the many shelves, before you reach the checkout. (Himself gave me such a wonderful birthday last week: on the plane he produced a book (Stuart McBride); and the following day,when I'd finished that one he produced another (Alex Grey, Pitch Black); and then a third (Fred Vargas); and, to finish off, I read the,book he gave me on Valentine's Day (Night Train).)

I also read No Country for Old Men. We watched the film at Christmas, but although completely absorbed throughout, neither of us really understood it. The book helped - a little: at least I now understand why it has the title it does. Wonderful spare writing. Annie Proulx writes in a similarly sheer fashion. I wish I could do that! But when I try, I become incomprehensible - opaque and obscure.

Going back to this morning's obsession, this inability to write sparely surely means I shall never tweet with conviction. I can't even text with economy - although that is partly because I loath text-speak. It's ugliness is veritably upsetting.