Thanks for wondering Stilly. I'm fine, without so much as a pulled muscle. I'm not the genius of body mechanics I was thirty years ago, when I could easily move a massive bookcase taller than myself, but I can still handle any piece of furniture I can get leverage on.

And as I said above, I won't take that particular risk again -- at least not when I'm alone in the house.

Our sitting room and dining room are ankle-deep in cat hair again, but I'm not quite desperate enough to haul the central vac hose upstairs and tackle it. Himself has taken to washing the kitchen floor, but the vacuum cleaner remains beyond his chosen arc of influence; he claims not to know quite how it works. I believe him; thousands wouldn't.

We were pleasantly busy this weekend, mostly in the garden. The composter is in a new spot that was vacated by last year's patio project, and we stabilized one of the rain barrels by resetting it on a large square paver the patio guys found under the demolished deck.

But most of last week I spent recovering from a flare-up of diverticulitis, which is that thing that typically happens to the lower guts of North Americans who live long enough. In me, it manifests itself as stabbing pain about three inches north of the pubic bone, accompanied by just enough nausea to make me wonder if it really is appendicitis this time. I sent Himself out to purchase ginger beer in tins and a clinical thermometer, which we have not got, and apparently clinical thermometers are sold out in Stratford. Not ginger beer, fortunately.

After a couple of days on a diet of ginger beer and bananas, I recovered enough to start eating normally, then promptly had a relapse -- leftover barbecued ribs. Back to ginger beer and bananas for another day, and now easing back much more carefully. Pasta with plain tomato sauce, shrimp, cooked veg.

Today, I might try something raw that is not a banana. Perhaps a ripe tomato.