Your correspondent is not at his best in hot weather. Didn't leave the flat till about five o'clock and that was just to clean several months' worth of birdshit off a bench in the garden so's I could sit on it. (Last night I sat by the pond - "the greenwood tree" was a bit of artistic licence, hope you don't mind, but today I needed the shady spot, under the tree.) Eric at no.3 had thoughtfully repaired it a few weeks ago, with super-strong adhesive of the kind they use on gliders, so he says, and I believe him.
What was I up to till five? Writing a draft of scene 9, mostly. Also re-plumbing the new washing-machine. Our old one packed up just as Georgina was moving house, so we got her old one and I put it in myself, which made me feel very virile, what with all the spannering and messing about in my useful cupboard. Then it sprung a leak, so I had to get a new hose. Hence the re-plumbing.
Scene 9 is just between my hero and the Virgin (in disguise). For no reason I can think of, I listened to loud music while I wrote, not my usual m.o. - Prodigy, Fat Boy Slim, New Order, Morrissey.
Then B went off to Southwark to do the bar, and me and the boy toddled off to have supper at the park cafe. I had a bacon toastie and S had chicken and chips and salad. Our diet is usually exemplary, so we let ourselves go a bit as a treat. S even had a lolly for pud, and while I was queuing for that I bumped into Richard Bean. Actually he had no idea who I was, and still doesn't!, but I recognised him from his Monsterist talk and introduced myself. The fog cleared a bit when I mentioned pm and Rod. He told me the Monsterists are having a conference at Hampstead soon.
My siblings and Mum are all up at Loch Lomond, at the REM gig. I kind of wish they'd invited me. Ah well. The price I pay for being the posh twat of the family.