I'll hold my hands up and admit that this is a bit of a cheat-y pic (it's a good few months old), but needs must...
Both daughters were party-goers this evening, and husband was left to his woodcutting devices - or so I thought. We returned home to a deliciously comforting waft of something baking in the oven - he'd cooked up his favourite bakewell tart, and even an extra one for his in-laws. Ah, bless him! They'll love that tomorrow. Thanks, love.
As I type this, it's 11.30pm, and we're waiting for someone to collect a set of tipi poles. They're 'this side of Birmingham', and they've travelled all the way from Yorkshire. I don't envy them the journey back at this time of night!
We've amused ourselves with a long awaited viewing of 'The Kite Runner'. A certain close friend will remember (with fondness?) that I bored her to tears about two years ago, banging on about the novel that had, quite simply, blown me away. I loved it so much that I gave a copy to my husband for his birthday back in January, and pestered him for months to get on and flippin' well read it!! Eventually, he did - and he was as hooked as I had been. Such compelling, heart-rending reading. Four times we've tried to rent it, and tonight was finally the night! Armed with a Chinese takeaway (yep, treat night), we settled in for some quality time with the t.v...
Or was it?
Hmmn, I'm not so sure. It's beautifully shot, but it lacks something. The mistake may have been to have read the book first, rather than the other way around, but big chunks of the narrative are missing. The novel reads like a pocket of truth, of real-life, of a true story; the film is exactly that: a film. Does anyone agree with me?
My advice? Get the book - read it, devour it and let the tears flow.