The day that smelled of lemons

Arose weakly from my floor nest of pillows and duvets in the morning to slurp coffee, and watch Mas, as ever, assemble his vitamins and other pills into a military formation before eating them. Mum had to pop into the GPs so I vacuumed the house while they were gone.

Mum lively and springing about. She's planning a series of short walks that she is going to force Mas to go on too. When I had to go, Mas drove me to Stanmore from where I travelled aromatically home to Brighton , clutching a bag of lemon scented pelargonium cuttings that Mum had given me.

Talked to Mike, the cat with the hat, on the train to plan a pow-wow about branding on Monday. Then the train waited outside Brighton for 30 minutes due to a fatality at Preston Park. My bag made the carriage smell nice though.

As I'd not nested well the previous night, I decided against brainwork and had a haircut instead. A nice one, it turned out, although the mirror at the back of the head showed that the Area of Concern is spreading. I don't seem to be receding from the front, but monkishly as befits one of my benign and studious disposition. Talking of benign dispositions I bumped into the Vicar at the barbers too. Wasn't quite sure who he was, at first seeing him reflected and walking into the barbers, but at least I said hello.

Then did some work in my tiny back yard, which is unruly and poor at the moment, and potted the pelargoniums for indoor use. In the evening I sauntered around to see Lorraine and share some rather nice meatballs made by her daughter Beth.

Tomorrow needs to be a major work day.

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