It’s only the 4th of January but it’s hard to imagine I’ll see a better thing on a screen this year than Olive Kitteridge (HBO, 2014). On top of its long and difficult beauty and humour, it throws us at the last a performance by Bill Murray which is breathtaking in its measured, soft simplicity. ‘I’m just waiting for the dog to die,’ says Frances McDormand’s Olive, ‘and then I’ll shoot myself.’ Bill Murray’s character laughs a real laugh. It’s the pressure release of the full four hours. And it’s fabulous.
Back to work yesterday and back to the gym today. The latter return is the first since September when I went over on my ankle after Morrissey in Manchester. I plug myself into the lovely blood harmonies of Joseph. The former is since just before Christmas, when I swapped making pictures for baking pastries. Like so:
A new Peanuts desk diary is begun with its customary gravity. The 5th in these years out on my own. This year is a year for big decisions.