Diary

Led by my spirit and eagerly provoked by the nostalgic memory of fascinating bookshop haunts, I have been visiting all my favourite bookstores in London, buying novels and reading all at once with such ferocity as never before. Sometimes, I am so enthusiastic, I may finish a 200-page novel in one sitting. I have allowed my own bliss to lead me as I slowly wade my way back into the once-misplaced and for so long, lost writing life. And books seem to crown all my efforts at tranquility and reflection.

I have been to my favourite cafes to drink coffee, eat pastry and to read. Even cafes have conjured up a personality that I have lugged around as my assortment of life's priceless things. Oh, the kind of cafes I enjoy are nothing significant. They're not fashionable as may be the case, grand or happening.

But rather, they may be seen as little poky things or happy lighted places where ladies gather for a natter after their shoppping. I may name some favourite addresses as the colourful Earl's Court or Kensington's very pleasant high street.

I observe those who lunch or chat with secret delight. I make notes, I write and scribble stories with pleasure and with ease.

For some strange reason, London affords me this kind luxury. There is an instant feeling of connection to a spiritual belonging where my nourishment as a writer and reader is well served. I have been buying books every other day. I feel as if I may die without them.

I make my own bliss. I weave strange gifts from environment, desire and atmostphere. And they don't cost a dime.