Sunday dinner was great; so good, in fact, that I had to turf the rellies at half-past nine before they settled in for the night. The crème brûlée was rather more brûlée than it should have been — next time, only three minutes, if that, under the broiler — but everything else was boffo. I have not lost my touch with custard.

Yesterday brought a very large surprise: the payment of the Supplementary Death Benefit portion of Edmund’s Army pension. Without warning, or so much as an explanatory form letter, it landed in my chequing account like an elephant dumped out the back of a passing cargo plane. Thus I have become a member of the investor class, as a lifetime of hard work (Edmund’s) and thrift (mine) had already set me up with a more than adequate pension income for the rest of my life. My lawyer warned me, with characteristic froideur, that I could well end up spending every penny on nursing homes if my life turns out to be as indecently long as is typical of my family.

The sun is shining in Stratford today, so I plan a pedestrian excursion to the post office. First, however, I shall telephone the town hall to find out why the recycling wasn’t picked up yesterday.

Donuel’s media diet strikes me as a good idea, and I might join him — at least with respect to reports and speculation about American politics. Swearing off the New York Times would be a jolt to my mental system; what if Paul Krugman solved the world’s problems and I missed it?