It's been to hot for anything that involves engaging the brain: there are unfinished things nagging the serenity of my horizon, but instead I went for a coffee with a friend who used to be in a band in the 1990s.
A member of the Pixies Fan Club, she had been to a secret gig in London and was thinking of forming a Pixies tribute band.
Afterwards, I headed for the supermarket to buy some drain-buster.
A whole saga of blocked drains ended with a dry weekend where I went away and found the drain problem had resolved itself while I was away; caustic soda did not work, sulphuric acid did not work, but going away and leaving it to sort itself out saved me from calling out the dreaded Dyno-Rod.
The man at the till was excited by my purchase; he is a Sikh with short hair, and when his son comes to stay, his son's hair blocks his drains with unfailing regularity.
He now has his own set of drain rods which he uses after his son has visited.
Isn't it funny what people tell you?
Isn't it funny that I'm telling you this?
Tonight is song writing night.
Like anyone who writes songs, I am in search of the perfect song and I feel that if only I can write it, I will no longer have to write songs again.
Of course, if I do, that will be a tragedy, as I will then have to spend my evenings watching TV or reading Mills and Boon classics.