Real tee-shirt weather  – a favourite phrase of Rachel’s. I got around the garden by myself, resisting the strong temptation to skip it for today. 2109 steps – not very many. The weather wasn’t tee-shirt in the morning: grey and heavy. But the gardens are always welcoming.

 

Otherwise little has been achieved – a post-Wimbledon day, like Twelfth Night, in which one packs away one’s toys for another year. It was grand while it lasted.

 

Poor England was devastated by the loss of that cup. I sleep with the radio on, and surfaced last night towards the end of something called “The Westminster Hour”, from 10 to 11 p.m. on Sunday nights, They were pontificating away, very soporific, when they discovered that they were all, at the same time, watching the football on their telephones – and England had just failed to kick those penalties. They gave up talking about politics altogether, and saw the programme out talking about football.

 

A couple of rounds of sock-knitting, no more. I didn’t feel strong enough to resume the Calcutta Cup vest, but I mustn’t let it slide.

 

Tamar, no, I don’t think our August cruise goes to Iona, although it must be close. C. has been there, I never have. Indeed, I had never been to a Hebride at all until I first cruised with the Majestic Line in 2018. I used to live on Staffa Street in West Allenhurst, NJ – I wouldn’t mind seeing that, either. (I wonder how it got its name. I don’t remember any other Scottish, let alone Hebridean, names in the vicinity.)