All this week I have been feeling weak and unsteady, wobbly on my feet and unfocussed. At first I thought I was taking rather a long time to recover from too much booze after dinner at Elder Brother’s house, but today I’m still dragging my tail and that can’t be why. Maybe — just maybe — I just ran out of metaphorical gas? Exhausted myself? Of course, the series of little glasses (after the wine) did its own share of the damage, but I’m beginning to think it was actually a last straw.

So I’ve been going to bed early and getting up when the cats insist, and avoiding tasks that require sustained effort. Keeping out of Tosh the stair guy’s way is my main occupation, while sorting out the heap of neglected papers (done at last), paying the bills, and picking at the boxes in the basement storage. I have three china barrels (not full of china) and two 4-cu boxes to go.

So far, from the boxes, one wineglass and one Mason jar have turned up smashed. Four pieces of furniture were wounded in transit from Stratford, and I have made arrangements for appropriate repairs.

The bookcase problem remains unsolved, and the twelve 2-cu boxes of books sit untouched in the dining room. I haven’t cracked any of the picture crates in the bunker, either. Next week. Maybe.

Today, the plan is to reconnoitre the community centre with the swimming pool, and sign up for aquafit if I can. I shall also plot the best route through the road construction to the nearest Anglican church, and replenish my veg supply.