A final Sunday

Little today to trouble the legions of my future biographers. Rain falling steadily in Haywards Heath, as the grey Sunday hastened towards nightfall, which was Lorraine's cue to work on her dreary reports. A short trip to a garage to blow air into tyres, and to Sainsbury's local offered vivid interludes of excitement, having spent the day tidying the house, partly in preparation for arrival of a photographer tomorrow who will snap the house so Jo can rent it.

I feel a bit graceless wanting to be back in Brighton so fervently. We had great good fortune in Jo offering us this comfortable house to rent. But as I cannot quell the yippees that leak out of me when I think that our last weekend in Haywards Heath is done.

In the evening I cooked, after talking to Mum and Mas. Mum had been off to hear a concert, which was recorded for Radio 3, of music by young composers this afternoon.