Cold

Lorraine off to Ashford this morning, as Pat and Maureen unwell. Weather foul. I didn't go to see Mum today, due to chesty cough and cold, and not fancying a six hour round trip. I was unable to contact her this morning, and ended up texting Wynford next door -- who told me her car was gone. Mum had been out shopping and going to the bank and so on. 

Wrote some of my horror story. Otherwise had a bit of a walk in the afternoon, looking at the sun on the sea, making a brief appearance. In the evening to  Brighton, as I wanted to give Anton, Oskar's 18th birthday present, which was his mixed martial arts gloves for biffing people. Lorraine and I will be in Scotland then.

Nice to see Anton, and have a judicious beer with him in the Evening Star, which mercifully seems to have changed managers, and play a game of bones which he enjoyed greatly, storming from behind to enjoy a flukey win. He was bracing himself for another ghastly work week. Did me good to get out.

Home and Lorraine back. All good. Meanwhile Chelsea won a game of football 6-0, after stinking all season. Cole Palmer, aka 'Cold 'Palmer because of his scoring celebration where he looks all shivery and rubs his arms as if cold, scored 4 goals. All well.

Below: sun on the sea.