The poor Handsomes from Blackburn: life is not being nice to them just now. Yesterday I did much hugging and admonishing of Mr H; he was contrite, a bit sad, all seemed prospectively fair. But then Mrs H phoned. Their unson-in-law, due to marry their daughter, mother of his two children, next year, is in intensive care in a hospital in Blackpool. He and a friend had gone to the aid of a late-night shopkeeper being harassed by a gang of youths; for which he got knifed in the stomach; the blade is still inside him. Heroism is a dangerous business. Back in England meanwhile, my brother, bereaved, divorcing, and trying to move house, still cannot sell his house... That's not too healthy either. Trivial life; and sad life.

I sit at the kitchen desk, writing this, looking out at gloomy sky and waiting for Mr H to appear with latest news. And for the computer man to ring up so I can meet him at the Texaco Garage. (Our place impossible to find otherwise; no maps here, not least.) Beloved is off getting money from the bank and taking Attic Woman's dog to vet to have his dew claws removed. Cleaner is cleaning, radio playing some kind of mournful early music - vocal...

The computer man has rung to say he's on his way, so I must be. More later. Granny p