Last night I went into the nearest metropolis to munch sausages and drink beer with friends, before seeing the Mighty Hotpants Romance perform: imagine a raucous mix of 50s girl-group vocals, X-Ray Spex guitars and deadpan lyrics delivered in broad Lancashire. A winning combination, I'm sure you'll agree. Tonight's entertainment is a party at an illustrious professor's house, to celebrate his transfer to Princeton. I'll be the one at the back looking through his bookshelves.
Meanwhile, I should apologise to the Royal Mail. Not all of my birthday cards and presents were stolen. Most of them were just a few days late. I'm charitably going to assume that my dad's card has been lost, rather than not sent at all.
Finally, I had a very incongruous reading experience yesterday. I went from the last chapter of Motion's biography of Philip Larkin, featuring his death, to the last volume of Moomins comic strips (sadly, there are some printing errors which detract from the pleasure). From dying poet, trapped in his downstairs loo piteously mewling 'hot, hot' as his face pressed against the pipework, to jolly Scandinavian creatures gambolling in the forests.
The Moomins
Very much not a Moomin.
