Last night I went for a walk. The day had been hot and oppressively humid. Now, the darkness was gathering around me, nightfall’s ink dissolving into low clouds. I bought a newspaper, just before they were tied together for returns. Some raindrops, tentative. Then, a cool wind. Not a breeze. I passed outside the Danish embassy. I looked up to see the swallow-tailed flag fluttering in the wind, against a lead-grey sky. Then I wandered in the nice neighbourhoods, the only person walking. The last drop fell. A pedestrian emerged, someone just walking her dog. Through the open windows I can see lonely domestic workers, foreign, with only a rudimentary knowledge of the language, placed in front of TV screens, as part of their evening entertainment; they occasionally glance out of the window at strange people passing by, like myself, they accidentally catch my eye. They look away, but not back at the TV screen.

Not much during the weekend, odd jobs around the house, the Urban Soul Festival (exhilarating), breakfast with One of the Seven. Good DVDs. Trivial exasperations, tiny. Unwilling to work. Unable not to work. Unputdownable Philip Pullman, one down two to go. So many precious personal ‘happinesses’ one wouldn’t write about.

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