You could call it unproductive. I had to go into town early to deliver something (don’t forget, plant the mystery in the first paragraph, if possible by the second sentence). It was already hot but there were thunder-heads around so I took an umbrella and by the time I got to Parliament Street the backs of my legs were saturated and my sandals had gone into squelch-mode.
When I’d finished my errand the sky had cleared and the roads were steaming so I did breakfast at a pavement cafe. Black coffee to finish and I remembered to buy some orchid food for Anna (strange diet, but that’s what she asked for).
On the way home I was thrown out of a charity shop with Rory Motion and his mother because they wanted to do staff-training in there and we didn’t look as though we were gonna buy much.
Rory Motion gave me a lift in his car and stopped off for coffee in my garden. He was clearly put out because the last time I blogged about him I’d called him a stand-up comedian and an existential loner and he said that sounded cold. I told him the next time I blogged about him I’d make clear that he was a stand-up comedian and a warm existential loner and that seemed to cheer him up. (Am I a man of my word, Rory?)
I made bread. (The sun was high in the sky by this time. Rory Motion had his shirt off and he glistened and told me about his plans for writing and developing a theme for a new routine while I worked.) The bread was one-hundred-percent rye and I used my own starter, after a recipe given me by Terry the Shoe. It rose nicely and dropped out of the tin neat as a new-laid-egg.
With the aroma of the fresh bread behind us we watched a rat cross the garden. Half way over it stopped and gave us the look before disappearing under the foxgloves by the border.
Sometimes life gets complicated when you least expect it.