Two miles, 6°, dry, at a good pace. Palm Sunday early Mass at Cowley St John. Working on another job application, which feels as though it too is destined to bear no fruit (though it is requiring me to revisit reviews of my books, which are all either agreeably laudatory or predictably disapproving) (‘predictably,’ I mean, in the sense that they disapprove on grounds one could foresee with even a little apprehension of my arguments, so I don’t find these disappointing).
But everything lies in the shadows of fifteen years from my father’s death.