I was fate's guinea pig today. Tracey trained it down to Brighton for a few hours, armed with her large Tarot cards wrapped in silk. After a cup of tea in the yard, and a roll-up cigarette for Trace, we got down to her very first reading for someone else. The cards did, however, uncompromisingly reflect my emotional landscape this year. I'm not sure what to do with that accurate reflection, though, other than listen to its advice on not idealising the past.

After, we walked down to the sea and ate fish and chips while sitting in deck chairs in the intermittent sun. I love being able to saunter down to the seaside and watch the bank holiday crowds. Trace brooding over last boyfriend somewhat. Apparently three psychics have said he will try to get back with her soon. While chatting with Trace, had an oddly comforting vision of a much older Peter Kenny happy to sit on a deckchair and watch the world go by with a flask of tea and a book and many long looks at the sea.

By the time I got home I felt weak and shaky. Given that I am a hypochondriac (everyone, after all, needs a hobby) actually being ill is an affront to human decency.

More Frazier this evening. And now bed.