I have heard it said that confession is good for the soul. I'm not entirely sure I agree with the idea but, well, it might just amuse a bear with very little brain. But before I do bare my soul (this is starting to get confusing) I really should clear up what seems to be a misunderstanding arising from my burblings yesterday. Perhaps I should also go on to finish what I started.
I did not mean to imply (as some people might have inferred) that neither Mr Clooney nor his marriage are unromantic. Nor was I saying that I am unromantic - although that is true. I failed to make clear that it was the city of Venice that I found unromantic, despite the assertion of a friend that it is the most romantic city in the world. Not for me, it isn't. But then, nor is Paris, which many people would rate highly for romance. I have strolled the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in both daylight and lamplight. I have wandered along the bank of the Seine, visited the Place de Théatre in Montmartre and done all the usual things - or most of them - but none struck me as being any more romantic than London or New York. And even Detroit has its river walk!
Venice, I think, is a city of crumbling palazzos with rip-'em-off restaurants along the Grand Canal.. Paris has grand, imposing architecture. But Amsterdam . . . Wander along the tree-lined canals by lamplight, canals crossed sometimes by narrow bridges, the merchants' houses neither crumbling nor grandiose but built on a much more intimate scale than the buildings of either Venice or Paris. Amsterdam, a city much more romantic then either Venice or Paris.
And now I haven't got time to start on my confessions. I've got to go and do some DIY while there are still several hours of daylight - just in case, you understand. Maybe I'll tell you about it tomorrow, assuming I haven't electrocuted myself by then.