Childish

The fascists towered in front of me; a wall of crew cut, black denim and green shiningness plinthed by bulbous brown leather boots. ‘God, forgive me,’ I muttered, taking the little [tabasco-filled] water pistols from my jacket pockets, one in each hand, and firing them in the faces of the green-jacketed men, straight into their eyes.

Claire leaves before dawn. I have a more leisurely time, getting to Edinburgh in plenty of time for my 9:45 physio. Then I spend a tedious hour at Currys, returning the fridge that was too wide for the barn. This was the fourth new fridge that I’ve returned/disposed of in as many months.

I drop in on Alan and Sandra on the way home. Sandra knocks up a delightfully unhealthy brunch. Alan gives me advice on flat roof insulation. And then they show me this delightfully childish greeting card.

I cook a veg curry for tea, watch The Russia House (Connery, Pfeiffer), crunch through a pan of popcorn, and read Whit into the early hours. Ideal.