This morning was almost chilly, 11°, though still with high humidity and high pollen count. While I was still warming up, a kind-hearted (perhaps still drunken) woman offered me a fag, on the impression that I was homeless and needed the proffered cigarette — that’s how scruffy I look with my lockdown hair, t-shirt and sweats. (She assured me that she was the most beautiful 35-year-old grandmother I had ever met, and I couldn’t think of another, so I affirmed her judgement. She also assured me, unprovoked, that I didn’t look any older than 38; was she trying to pick me up at 5:45 on Sunday morning?) After that somewhat unusual encounter, I ran a sluggish mile; my whole body just felt heavy and my breathing laboured. Final time was 9:39.
Morning Office, hot breakfast, Mass from Most Holy Trinity, Wolverhampton, and a slow day of a little reading, a lot of distraction. Margaret had some concentrated writing to work out, and so was upstairs on her own most of the day. We had visits online with grandson Thomas with Si and Laura, and another with Nate. As a sign of how listless we were, we watched Swamp Thing in the evening.