The news from Thessaloniki is good. David’s tests are clear. I don’t know when Helen will be back. Did he drink too much coffee on Saturday? I have to be careful with coffee myself.

Yesterday’s excitement was a breakfast date with niece C. and her sister F. (another niece) at Dishoom in St Andrew’s Square. It’s a small chain of delicious Indian restaurants, intended at least vaguely to represent a Bombay café in the days of the raj. There is even a fan gently turning in the ceiling overhead – not much needed in Edinburgh. An open kitchen on the ground floor, delightful staff.

The only difficulty was that they were so crowded with late breakfasters and early lunchers at 10:30 in the morning that conversation wasn’t easy.

I took a taxi up, and walked home. Same distance, but downhill.

Then in the afternoon I was woken from my usual nap by abdominal discomfort and continued with that and diarrhoea for five hours. Then it stopped. Paradox was endlessly solicitous but unable to bring me a hot water bottle. C. and F. are fine.

I’ve been well today, but of course even weaker than usual. I’ve spent the day in pyjamas, a delightful indulgence.

Non-knit

I’ve finished Le Carre. Far from his best, but good to be reminded. I’m now deeply involved in the Last Chronicle of Barset. All our old friends are there. I’m having a bit of trouble remembering who married whom in which book, but it doesn’t really matter. We’re going to get the Pallisers on the radio, starting tomorrow.

Rachel rang up this morning from London – very sad about England’s defeat in the World Cup final. I told her the story I told you, about Mr. Boyce asking his wife on the way home from the dinner party, “Why can’t we have our beef stewed like that?”

“Daddy”! she cried. Apparently her husband (of nearly 40 years) wouldn’t have said it.