A lovely picture of my father-in-law, Oliver Cousens, discovered in a small album kept by his wife.

Midsummer is gone, and the nights don’t look any different really. Today is still quite close, but also windy and so not all that pleasant. This morning I went into the city for an eye test. Everything was well – so no explanation for why my tears burn like acid.

Dropped in at a revamped Prospect House, where the editorial floor looks quite smooth but has obvious defects, like no privacy, which is needed in a newspaper office – and most offices. Plenty of glass and carpets, except for the back stairs, which are as bare and unpleasant as they always were. Had a substantial conversation with Bernadette about Jules’ shorthand. She is in a corner with no door – rather sad.

Dot is at a garden centre, buying stuff for hanging baskets. I like to say that garden centres are like caravans and dogs – things the world would be much better without – but I am mellowing towards them. That doesn’t mean I would go to one voluntarily, though.