Partly – though perhaps not entirely – because I’ve been feeling lousy, I have not made any progress with novel-writing five days into novel-writing month, and will probably abandon the attempt, concentrating instead on writing a short story for the Fish competition, getting a collection of poems together to submit to a publisher and writing a Christmas drama. So if I’m galvanised into something, it will have been worthwhile, and if David finishes his novel and makes a million I shall bask in reflected glory. I can do basking.

I’ve been feeling vaguely sub-fluish, with a floaty head (no picture, unfortunately), occasional nausea, pains in odd places and particularly severe pains in my lower back. Dot thinks this is to do with my weight, but I am not fooled. Anyway, I am feeling a bit better this evening (she prayed for me before going to Weightwatchers) and will shortly be off to play a tournament chess match, if I can avoid the fireworks.

Yesterday I managed Communion and the church lunch. Read one of my poems in the service – immediately following Rufus Wainwright’s version of the Leonard Cohen song Hallelujah, which is not where you want to be – and all went well. Didn’t do much for the rest of the day, other than catching up on recorded TV programmes. No, I didn’t feel like writing. Norwich CIty came back from 2-0 down to draw 2-2 with Ipswich, so Glenn Roeder, our new manager, is clearly the Messiah.

Today we went to Park Farm, then to visit Dot’s cousin R. On emerging form his house we found it had started raining. Chilly too.

Oh, yes – the picture. Another one of our refurbished garage to demonstrate that I do sometimes play cars (and trains) with Oliver, whatever he says. It’s hard on the knees, though.