Low Sunday. Come to think of it, I didn't feel particularly high today. Don't get me wrong, I'm not really 'low' but I have been 'higher' at former times of my existence. For instance, I was very 'high' on New Year's Eve. Oh, belt up, you fool.
John brought the car up (it ceased to function this morning) and he spent all day with Dad and Dave B messing about with it in sub-Spring-like temperatures on the drive. I read 'Your Dear Letter'. Watched a Margaret Rutherford/Alastair Sim epic. Films of this nature are usually about half way through when Dad comes in and rolls on the floor moaning: 'now you know why so many cinemas closed down in the 1950s'. I happen to like old films.
To the YP this evening. Yes, work. Low Sunday really fits now. Nothing of interest at the YP. Get on with Ursula so very well but need not comment on it here.
Saturday's nationals all fell for the Kensington Palace 'deliberate mistake' re the so-called 'Lord Culloden' fiasco. The Times especially went on to comment on what a delightful title it is, and how apt it should come back into circulation in this year, the 230th since the death of the Duke of Monmouth (sic) lost in battle there. Bollocks, if you pardon my expression.
Taxi home at 11.30pm. The driver seemed quite normal. Oh yes, I do get odd cab drivers occasionally. On particularly odd, at the forefront of my mind, considers himself to be the world's greatest living expert on snakes, and advised me how successfully to run away from one if I'm ever suddenly confronted by a venomous creature. Another is a qualified meteorologist. These cabbies trap innocent, sleepy victims, such as I, and proceed to pour out their secret plans for world domination. Oh, yes. I've met the next Adolf Hitler on several occasions en route from Leeds to Guiseley. What is worse some even attempt to be amusing.