I now own only one car, and my relationship with the insurance broker has stabilized. What a relief.

The new ride is a blue 2021 VW Golf with most of the available bells and whistles, the notable exception being an automatic transmission. Instead, it has a nippy six-speed manual gearbox that I like much better, not least because car thieves hate them. Unlike the 2017 Golf Sportwagen I traded in, which cornered like a chesterfield, it handles like a sports car.

I have also leapt through the last estate hurdle at the bank, and now have access to what remains of Edmund’s practice funds. That means I can pay his HST and income tax, and I might get a coffee with whatever’s left.

This afternoon, the chiropodist finally gave up on treating my wonky foot with a laser device (snake oil, in my opinion), and started injecting cortisone into the inflamed spot where the plantar plate ligament attaches to the bone. It feels better already.

Tomorrow at ten, two large muscly gents are coming to move the big, awkward Victorian bookcase downstairs, and haul a substantial tallboy chest of drawers to my brother-in-law’s house. That’s the last transfer of furniture.

To crown the week, the last four rugs will come back from the cleaners on Friday. Hoop-dee-doo, I can hardly wait.