Hot and blue skied

Pesky cats seem not to understand that this is the weekend. Calliope waking me at six by sitting on me and passive-aggressively purring. Fed the beasts and returned to bed, then bought chewy brown bread and a Daily Mail and white bread for Pat and Maureen. The man in the butchers demanded to know if I was having a barbecue today, as it was so hot and blue skied. We didn't.

Instead, a day of regrouping. Lorraine coughing and not well, me worn thin and sore throaty still. Lorraine off to get her hair cut, Pat and Maureen off to meet meet Beth to eat a McDonald's and do a spot of shopping. I chose to sit outside  under the little tree looking at my poems and drinking coffee, all in preparation for a heroic afternoon sleep of two hours or more.

Then in the evening we all watched a movie about the life of Florence Foster Jenkins, which was oddly touching and enjoyable. The business of watching brave and noble Chelsea on Match of the Day, another victory and then bed.