The Hut

It should come as no surprise to anyone that my mother has rented Mr Nilsson's hut, plonked the money on the table, and walked away with a bargain. "We can put all the things we don't like away in the cupboard" she says. My idea of an Enid Blyton camping in the woods kind of thing for Minks, Rams & cousin Molly, hasn't really gone down so well with daughter who insists that she "loves waking up in the morning to the smell of Pappa's bacon frying." "But you can make your own! Just imagine, your own cereal, milk, toast - it will be like camping." She looks unconvinced. Mopey even. "We definitely need to rent bicycles," she says, "It's a long way from the house." I would be generous suggesting that it is a mere 250 yards from the house but I know better and keep my mouth closed, grinning instead in a supportive mother kind of way at her bike idea. "Well I think we can get bikes at Havna. That WILL be fun." I imagine them in those little smocked dresses that the French girls wear until they're eighteen, buckled red mary-jane flats, leather satchels strapped to their backs, bursting with ginger beer and red apples and paper-wrapped sandwiches, peddling as fast as their long brown legs will carry them, whizzing down Grimestadstranda on a summer evening. "Gosh, what fun you girls will have!" I say, feeling a little like Joyce Grenfell.

Back to the hard news of the day. Minks and I ate Cherry Garcia and watched the Paris Hilton interview on Larry King. I am the biggest gullible fool in the world and thought she sounded marvellously together and sane. But I suppose we've never really heard her speak before so any words strung loosely together in such a way to resemble a sentence appears impressive. Poor thing couldn't remember her favorite quote from the Bible when asked. I wracked my brain a bit there too, remembering that the Lord's prayers isn't in the Bible. Psalm 23, I thought, that's what I'd choose, or that bit about ants (a feeble folk) but I can't remember which book it's from or how it goes, just that I like it. Anderson Cooper had no time for her and echoed really what I've always moaned about "why would someone with such position and power not use it to make positive change in the world." Dear Jess Cagle, who really is such a lovely, huggable man, seemed besotted. He told the world that Paris was "sweet" and "sincere." My old pal Ken Sunshine was less positive pointing out that if she wants to keep her mystique she really shouldn't do hour long interviews where her lack of intellect is so sharply defined. I don't know. I'm so shallow. I just kept wondering why she was wearing so much ugly orange lipgloss. One thing is clear: Michael Sitrick has made an impression. If there is one argument for a good publicist, it was made by Paris yesterday. She cleaned up her act. I'm not sure I believe a word of it, but most will. Afterall, jail is the surefire fast track to heaven. Wanna find God? Get thyself to the slammer. (It's really sad isn't it that I'm so cynical. At 19 I was an idealist. Really. I believe that man was good. Now, I'm not so sure).

Figs are in season. I cooked some bread on the grill last night and chopped up figs with basil, olive oil, salt and pepper, to top it. Delicious. Miss Ame came for supper in a pretty blue dress and we discussed our dogs ad nauseum, while eating figs, grilled asparagus and new potatoes with butter. And my old standard -- boneless, skinless chicken thighs baked with lemon and garlic and olive oil (and a little oregano). The figs are really good with chopped mint and mozarella added to the above mixture, by the way. I believe it's an old Jamie Oliver recipe.