The garden looks convalescent, especially with the sprinkler deployed. The landscapers assured me that, after last winter’s stellar snow-pack and our wet spring, grass is practically leaping out of the ground. They spread the seed very thickly in the hope of achieving at least scanty growth by the time the realtor decides to have pictures taken.

After my drastic week, I went out for dinner last night at the Prune, one of this ritzy town’s ritzier restaurants. For the first time since Edmund died, I enjoyed myself at a table for one in a snazzy joint. I had oysters, and a dish of white asparagus, and a lovely piece of halibut. Entirely within the parameters of a low-carb diet, and delicious to die for.

One of the many nice things about the 21st century — not quite up to laser eye surgery but close — is the availability of excellent oysters even in months without an R in them.