Thursday. Work mild-mannered again, but feeling a tad twitchy. A stroll around the Italian Gardens in Hyde Park at lunch, listening to a Start the Week podcast which discussed Robert Liston a Scottish Surgeon working in London in the 1820s, which made me feel sick. He was 6'2" and burly, apparently very good at sawing off legs, one he completed in 28 seconds. He was so enthusiastic, however, he cut the finger off an assistant, and splashed blood on a member of the audience (for there usually was a crowded audience) who died of fright. The assistant died of sepsis a bit later on, and the person they were operating on died too. It was, it was said, the only operation with 300% mortality. Not the most relaxing thing I've ever listened to. Talk about surgical theatre.

Home at a reasonable rate, but trespassers on the line somewhere plunged the entire network into delay. Walked home from Brighton station, smashing my 10k paces limit with ease. Pat and Maureen at home, there to look after the cats while I'm in Austria, and Lorraine is in Glasgow seeing Sam and Jade over the weekend. Nice to see them both, but little time to chat as Lorraine and I rushing about packing and so on.

And so to bed, Lorraine reading a few more pages of Pullmans The Book of Dust. The last sleep in my bed next to my loving wife for a week.

Below a snap from the Italian Gardens in Hyde Park looking towards The Serpentine.