A Disturbed Night

I slept poorly last Saturday, kept awake to a marked degree I suspect by my gluttony at our old favourite The Ship Inn. As is usual I listened to the radio as I endeavoured to fall asleep. This generally works but on this occasion rather than being lulled to sleep I was still listening in the small hours. I encountered an adaptation of Iris Murdoch's A Severed Head. Murdoch is not an author with whom I am familiar, one of the many lacunae in my reading.

I found the story both brilliant and disquieting and I suspect this reaction says rather more about me than it does about Murdoch. Despite my liberal arts veneer I do have trouble with casual immorality. I can't remember being quite so disturbed by something since reading Ian McEwan's The Cement Garden. That experience left me with admiration at the craft but with no desire to read any more of his output. In this I am almost undoubtedly wrong, a fact not least signified by his being one of the Groupie's favourites. 

Time for the OG to grow a pair.

On a lighter note I ran for ninety minutes this morning without mishap. We're getting there. Slowly. Very slowly.