The Diary of Michael Palfrey aged 73¾

Thursday again. Wasn’t it Thursday last week too? Look at the calendar – so what’s occurring today then? Oh yes, how could I forget? Nothing. I remember doing that last week too. You can really have too much of a good nothing.

Never did quite get the hang of Thursdays. At school, Thursday was always double Chemistry in the morning and Games (aka torture) all afternoon. I think I’ll stare at the pair of jays and the archdeacon pigeons on my lawn. A female pheasant comes right up to the window and stares back. Her male companions aren’t with her today. They escape from the game farm across the railway line. I tell you, it’s like Chicken Run around here.

The postman’s been. He’s brought my weekly TLS with its fiendish crossword. That’ll kill a few hours failing to complete it, though I can boast, oh yes I can, of winning the prize five times.

Later: I’ve been shaving off a week’s worth of whiskers, while contemplating my grandad’s face in the mirror. Nearly bedtime, well, I mean you’ve got to have a goal, haven’t you?

So, dear dairy, as I used to spell you when I was eight, to bed, as Pepys would have said. Friday tomorrow. “The weekend begins here”, Cathy McGowan used to say. Maybe something will happen. Meanwhile: Help!