I have achieved what feels like a workable compromise on the heirloom dohickeys spread out on the work table downstairs. After a careful triage, I put them in an ornamental box made by a Haida artist. The oddest things survived the sorting, such as a golden tress from Granddad’s first haircut, in a box labelled “The hair of the deep-dyed villain”, and a disc of leather with “First Prize Sharpshooter” and Granny’s name carved into it. The opera glasses, the Japanese pen case with its opium pipe, and the wine-bottle seal made the cut, along with a snuffbox made of the tip of a ram’s horn. I’ll find a way to dispose appropriately of the many sets of drawing instruments and the boxes of military junk jewellery.

Supper last night was an experiment: lamb shanks cooked in a small Römertopf clay pot. I love lamb shanks, but until now failed to figure out a way to prepare them for just myself. Using the flavourings from a NYT recipe by Robert Farrar Capon, I put two shanks in the pot with a sliced onion, two chopped Roma tomatoes, ground allspice and nutmeg, and oregano, salt and pepper. Lid on, it went into the oven for an hour at 425°F. The result was as delicious as the original version, and the only thing I’ll do differently next time is browning the shanks first. The second shank is for tonight, with another glass from the bottle of Bardolino I opened yesterday.

As for Mr T’s close call yesterday, I can’t stop myself wishing that he had been stood maybe six inches to his right.