Phew: I’ve just emerged from the harrowing world of Charles Arrowby. And the upshot? He did, I suppose, develop some sort of understanding of himself – if that is what goodness is, or where goodness starts – but it was only through a very violent process which left him without hope or ego. He had to rebuild his reality piece by piece, taking this new awareness with him. I felt, in places, terrified of him, in others, embarrassed for him, and I even cheered him once or twice. There’s no doubting Iris Murdoch is a bloody genius. What an inspiration: as a writer and as someone who meditates so deeply on ‘the human condition’ (to use a horrid phrase).
In other events, Freya has hidden our car keys. She is refusing to remember where she has put them, saying: ‘I don’t know, where are the car keys?’ each time we ask her. Like it’s some sort of rhyming game we’re playing for her amusement. We have searched high and low and we have no spare set. I’m blaming Freya, but of course it could have been Ben. Or Don, even. Though, admittedly, I was the last to drive the car.
