Pooterish day.

Germy Anton entirely to blame for 48hour bug. Which gripped me on Wednesday afternoon and forced me to take Thursday off work and slept heavily. Woken by Anton calling around feeling much better and unspeakably bouncy, taking advantage of my grogginess by ridiculing my hair, which has turned into risible comedy hair due to Nicki being on holiday for two weeks.

Felt a little better by the evening and applied scissors to hair.

A community woman police officer called round to collect the credit cards which were thrown over my fence on Saturday night. I had to put them in a bag so that she didn't put her dabs on them. I meanwhile had covered them in mine, so I will probably be arrested in five years. Noticed one of the cards had the woman's d.o.b on it, and it was the day they were stolen.

Organising poems on my computer as they are in loads of places. Discovered some letters Tim wrote to me shortly before he died, which made me very sad. He was pretty much on his deathbed but he still found time to write to me encouragingly about my work.

Massively cheered up by lovely MJ however, and retired early to my bed.