Cooking. Reading. Cooking. Reading. Cooking ...

 

They had lunch, good to the point of extravagance, but labour-saving to the last degree -- caviare out of the fridge, a raised game pie, which actually came piping hot out of the oven, but which Julia instantly recognized as having originated at Fortnums; ice-cream again from the fridge, and baked peaches from the oven, but both from the same source as the game pie -- all her hostess had had to do was dress the salad and cut the brown bread and butter for the caviare, Julia realised. Oh well, very nice if one could afford it, she thought a little uncharitably. She asked if Mrs. Martin had any help?
      'Oh, yes, old Mrs. O'Brien comes in and cleans, and does any wash-up we've left. She can't cook, except to do a roast, and make soda-bread; she makes lovely soda-bread. I do most of the cooking,' Mrs. Martin said.
       'Do you enjoy that? Some people love cooking,' Julia said.
      'I wouldn't say I love it, no; I don't mind it, only it takes up so much time, when one might be talking, or out in the air, or reading.'

from Julia in Ireland, by Ann Bridge

This made me smile on the bus tonight.

{There's no book in Still life with sleeper, by Henri Matisse.
OK,  but it's funnier than the one that had one.}