It’s wet, it’s very much autumn, and tonight we’re promised the biggest moon in 70 years. Yesterday afternoon a crowd of about a dozen youths were fighting outside our house, and I called the police (as did several others). Since my last post (an appropriate phrase) Trump has been elected President of the United States and Leonard Cohen has died. So things are not going too well.

Yesterday we had a Remembrance service at church, but Howard, who was leading, forgot to arrive early enough to have the silence at 11am; so we got round to it at about 11.08am. Still, it’s the thought that counts, and Howard did read a Cohen song (Anthem) that I supplied him with.

Later Dot and I drove to Lowestoft for a performance at the Seagull. We did two songs (not particularly well, though I think they’re good songs), and I read three poems: Looking at Foinaven, Saltmarsh after the War and The Return of Magic. It was an odd evening – not enough good quality poets there, and when I mentioned Leonard Cohen, I suspected that most people hadn’t heard of him.

The previous evening was more successful: Dot’s Sillars concert at Blofield, which attracted pretty much a full church on a rather miserable night. Dot was at the church from about 2pm, rehearsing, and I went with Paul, Maryta and Anna Green, who had made a last-minute decision to attend. Anna and I sat right at the front, which I would never have done on my own, but it was very interesting to see the musicians close up. Some good music, too. My favourite: Gideon’s Oboe from The Mission, but music from Star Wars and Jurassic Park was also impressive. At the interval spoke to David Pilch and his wife Barbara, who were doing refreshments. I used to go to school with David, and we re-met when we did a Paston event at Blofield a few years ago. Paul and Maryta called in for coffee afterwards.

Thursday and Friday last week were both strange. On Thursday I took Philip and Joy to the hospital for a 3.30pm appointment, and they didn’t get away till after 5pm. This wouldn’t have mattered normally, but I was due to have my haircut at about 5.30pm; so I drove in determined fashion through the rush-hour traffic and got back only a few minutes late – to find that Linda had forgotten her scissors and was going to do the cutting a week later.

While at the hospital I had a chat with Stephen Crane, a member of my chess club, who was there with his wife and granddaughter, who had broken her arm in falling off a horse.

The strange thing about Friday was not that Joe Logan came to tune the piano (£88), but that I went up to a planned reunion with some trainees in the BrewDog pub on Queen Street – I had received a reminder earlier in the day that I had not bothered to reply to because I was not sure when I’d be able to make it. I had a good look round and didn’t recognise anybody; so I came home. Later it transpired that they had rescheduled. Still, the walk did me good.

Just finished reading Smoke by  Dan Vyleta and Conclave, by Robert Harris. I preferred the latter, though the ending didn’t quite ring true.