A lovely friend of mine mentioned in the comments to the previous post a charming RC Sherriff novel, “The Fortnight in September,” where a mundane holiday of a fairly ordinary lower middle class family turns into a saga extraordinaire through the lens of the careful and loving eye of the narrator. Of course, it’s remarkably relatable to me and L. as we’re having our breakfast at the hotel, and everything was familiar—freshly made porridge with berries, roasted nuts and honey, plenty of black coffee, toast with homemade orange marmalade and the same tunes of the 60s–70s as the background music—The Turtles, Marvin Gaye and The Beach Boys (whose songs, surprisingly, felt less ghastly than in other circumstances).
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