Surprisingly good, for a Tuesday: a proposal that excited my imagination from a colleague, a visit from my Champagne Friend who sat with me watching the planes taking off and landing, and who trawled the T K Maxx at Gallion's Reach for cardigans and kitchen things, and a student who, against the odds and much to my great pride, found himself a work placement.
There are pages and pages of lists of undone things, still a hangover from the Autumn when I was working double my normal quota of hours, but at least I'm not doing that any more. I have a new drawing on the go, and ideas for new songs teeming in my head.
What can I remember from the weekend? Not much, although I have fresh chords in the arsenal and an idea of tuning a twenty-quid guitar from the Cancer Care shop permanently to a happy Hawaiian tuning and playing it with a bottleneck, which Offsprog Two will find annoying.
I am reading a little Everyman Classic version of Trollope's The Vicar of Bullhampton which will probably replace Foucault's tangled anarchy in a lecture I am doing in a month or so about Hip Hop Honeys. It's a jolly good read because Trollope is particularly good at come-uppances and subtle unsettlings.
That, and an unmitigated diet of detective shows, makes life quite enjoyable.
Been watching The Killing? I am an iPlayer catcher-upper and it's intriguing to sympathise with an incompetent police force; you get so used to expecting the detectives to get it right, or at least, to be in control. The script is almost like a Patricia Highsmith story with its slipping morals and mistakes that make the whole story change tack. What will happen next?