Oh, dear. Old age has surely arrived when a Bank Holiday gives an excuse for an afternoon nap. Is it worth giving an excuse? I had been out in the hot sun and we’re not used to much heat at this time of the year. More than two hours of sunshine exhausts us.

Worse, it was more than the 10-minute catnap that refreshes without taking time out of the day. I had my head down for the best part of an hour and a half. When I woke up, Ro was still working on his computer – the frightening thing is that he was actually working; day job sort of thing. Not work that he would have been doing in the office, but improving his website-writing technique. Actually, he’s been spending a fair bit of the weekend working on a website for his brother – Al, who was so sniffy about my blog a couple of weeks ago, has decided to go public for the sake of greenness. I’ll put up a link when the website is up and then both my sons will be outed. After all the lengths I’ve gone to, to keep their identities private. Hah!

Still well behind with the veg garden. I can’t plant anything out unless it’s netted, and I haven’t enough netting. It’s been too hot to work in the greenhouse, so I didn’t do any work there until 6.30 this evening. The Sage, darling man, took care of dinner and brought me chilled wine, which has upped his Merit score considerably. When he reaches the end of the column, he will receive his due reward. He’s quite excited already.

The good news is that I’ve finally caught up on the 1000-plus posts waiting for me when I came home with my new computer a week ago. You will have my full attention from now on.

I’ve finished the first book of the Book Binge month. It was a re-read, actually, but I haven’t read it for almost forty years. Bury me in my Boots, by Sally Trench, made quite an impression on me when I read it in the late ’60s. In her teens, she decided to live and work among down-and-outs in London and did so by simply joining them, in the first place. When I was a teenager, beggars simply did not exist outside London and other large cities and, although I was certainly aware of drop-outs, I hadn’t, at the age of fifteen, ever met any. Sally was and is a remarkable woman and this is still a powerful, although enigmatic (for she doesn’t tell you anything about the other side of her life), book, with a shocking and dramatic ending.

Oh, update (10 pm) TV continuity announcer “is your sexual behaviour normal?” I, who was innocently waiting to watch QI, said “Ew!”, startled. Ro said “But this is the BBC, isn’t it?” indignantly.

…etc, etc, yeah, yeah.

I only received the hymns for this morning at 6 o’clock last evening. I hadn’t been due to play at all, but the first Sunday organist’s wife is just out of hospital, so of course he doesn’t want to leave her. It was also my turn on the coffee rota.

I had a phone call at 9 o’clock this morning that added to my worry level somewhat, and I didn’t leave for the papers until 9.45. Quickly whipped into Londis for some milk (for the coffee), into the papershop and I was in church just after 10. I didn’t know one of the hymns, but I sightread – that was all right. Practised them all, went and filled the urn, put out tables and chairs, spooned coffee into the cafétères, fetched mugs and plates, put out biscuits, unlocked back door (fire exit), then did various bits of churchwardenish duty and looked out music for the voluntaries (the music played at the start and end of the service and during Communion). It was ten to eleven. John arrived. He looked puzzled to be the first in the congregation – the sidesman had arrived, but that was all. However, by 10.59, there were 19 people there.

I played good*, you know? The first hymn, the one I’d had to learn, had eight verses. Eight!!(!) I counted and sang “One one one one one one one one. One-one oneone one one one one-on-one” etc (imagine the repeats until eight, when I stopped counting). Second hymn, a favourite tune, though tricky, went with aplomb. Another good one for the third. A slurp of wine and a wafer and lo! My sins were forgiven (because, of course, I truly repented) and then the fourth. I played, and it was a long one, with six verses of eight lines. I finished with a flourish … but the congregation didn’t. Bugger. I’d relaxed a verse too early.

Oh well. The coffee was good, and strong. I didn’t eat any biscuits – would I? I have eschewed biscuits. I’ll tell you when the first stone has gone, but not quite yet. Maybe next month.

Bank Holiday tomorrow. Have a splendid one.

*No, to be grammatically correct and say ‘well’ would give the wrong impression. I bluffed well, but I’m not a good organist – so I played good.

Advice to young bloggers – always keep a bulldog clip about your person. It may save your modesty one day.

It was mid-afternoon and the saleroom was not too full. There were enough helpers to look after the customers viewing the sale, so I went along to the loo while I still could – another half-hour and I wouldn’t have time. I undid the side zip on my trousers.

Afterwards, as I started to do them up again, the thread at the bottom of the zip unravelled and it disintegrated; that is, the two sides came apart. I tried to fix the fastener on again without success. I removed the trousers, sat down and spent several minutes trying to put it together. In the end, I gave up and started to rootle in my bag (how fortunate that I’d brought it, meaning to use the comb and lipstick) hoping to find a couple of safety pins. I did find a paperclip and, more usefully, a bulldog clip too.

The trousers had no top fastening, just the zip. I bunched the waistband up enough to fold over, attached the clip firmly and peered. There was a bit of a gape lower down, but fortunately the top I was wearing was long enough to hide the sight of my pants – which were, in any case, pretty and lacy enough to not embarrass me more than the fact that they might, otherwise, be glimpsed. I muttered bad-temperedly about the poor workmanship of the Udaipur tailor who’d made them in the first place.

The Sage had noticed my absence. “Car all right?” he asked cheerily. Oh yes, that was another thing. A year or so back, the car park we usually use had been made short-term, with a maximum of three hours. So I checked the multi-storey. It closes at 9 pm. That is no use to me at all, as I might not be able to go and move it before 9 o’clock, so I have to use the short-term one and feed the meter, which I shouldn’t do but have no option. By the time I’m doing it, there is plenty of room so I repark, just to show willing, and buy another ticket including the overnight one. Ah, but then I read it. ‘Overnight’ means up to 11 pm. So, let’s say I arrive in Lowestoft town centre, intending to hit the shops, carry on out to dinner in the evening and then enjoy the night-time social scene. I can’t. I have to keep reparking. Presumably, after 11, that means finding a parking place on the street. Maybe the powers that be in Lowestoft don’t get out a great deal and like to have early nights.

Apart from that, how did I enjoy the auction? Splendid, thank you. It went very well and the books balanced at the end, which is always an exciting moment.

But not gone yet. The sale’s not for another seven hours, but we’re all packed up and ready to go. It’ll take half an hour to get there, an hour or so to set up and then I’ll be working my little socks off until 7 o’clock when I can relax and enjoy the sale, whilst the Sage does the skilled work.

In the meantime, we’re having a light and early lunch of sausages (yes, darlings, I’m such an oik that I’m eating and typing at the same time), roasted red peppers and potatoes and I’ve made lots of food up to sustain us.

Dinner last night was delightful, by the way. Lovely sea trout, new potatoes from Cornwall, Norfolk asparagus and Suffolk spring cabbage. And a French apple.

I’ll just check the Sage’s emails, then I must unplug the computer, as I need the extension lead.

Be seeing you (please imagine the little wave/salute that The Prisoner used to give, because I’m doing it Right Now with the hand I’m not typing with).

I noticed the other day that I was writing my 998th post and meant to remark upon the thousandth. I forgot. This is post number 1003. Unfortunately, no. 1000 referred to the dog being sick.

I’ve spent the last hour clearing my desk and dealing with things that had accumulated in the past few weeks. The new computer is now sitting splendidly on the cleared desk instead of the table in the drawing room where it has reposed since Monday. Actually, I rather liked it there. It was very comfortable, relaxing on the sofa and typing, although I admit that I didn’t get much work done. It’s more purposeful here. The main reason for bringing it in, however, was to plug it in to the printer … don’t think I wasn’t tempted simply to take the printer through there and have everything around me (including a small fridge with beer in), but I resisted. There is a small part of me that isn’t, at heart, a bloke.

More to come, I expect. I’m just off into town for food. The fishmonger will be on the market and we’re out of bread and we’ve eaten all the vegetables.

Later The ‘bloke’ remark wasn’t meant in any way as a criticism, nor a description of all men, by the way, and certainly not an insult – as I implied, it describes me pretty well on the whole.

I’ve bought a splendid sea trout for dinner, first of the season. I went to the bakery for a loaf and looked at the price as it was being wrapped up – couldn’t read it at all. I looked with one eye, then the other, then realised I’d forgotten to put my contact lens in this morning. Fortunately, I can see well enough to cycle I hadn’t realised at all, which just demonstrates how unobservant I am.

There was a woman in the wholefood shop buying a whole basketful of stuff, over £40-worth. Staples; butter and cheese and milk and cereals and nuts and the like. I noticed that the organic cornflakes were labelled ‘gluten free’ as if this was unusual. Aren’t all cornflakes gluten free? It is an awfully good little shop. I buy more and more of my general foodstuffs there.

My car is back, by the way. Mike is quite sure that he’s put everything right now and he says it’s running beautifully. He says that he’s not surprised that I liked it (before all this nonsense came up) as it’s a pleasure to drive. “I put my foot down a bit” he said “as I was coming out of a junction and there was a lorry coming in the distance, and I was up to 75 before I knew it.” That’s miles, not kilometres, per hour, by the way. I hope there’s not a speeding ticket in the post; it’ll be embarrassing to have to pass it on to him. However, I know what he means, not that I drive over the limit at all, ever.