The prof and I

Today, a growing number of philosophers and psychologists hold that the self is an illusion. But even if the centuries-old idea of it as essential and unchanging is misleading, there is still much to explain.

Another scorcher. We pick strawberries. We pack for London. We drop my car at the Broughton garage. We go to Biggar to post an RNLI pager back to Kinghorn. And bump into Sarah, Andrew, and George. A fortuitous meeting that leads to coffee and, for some, cake.

Angus is still asleep, so we go straight to Waverley, stock up on M&S goodies, and wait for the platform to be announced. We have a whole table, which we spread out over. Eat, drink, and watch Queen of Katwe. Apparently, an important football match is taking place, too.

London is unpleasantly hot. We walk along Euston Road, picking our way through the detritus of Pride. At the flat we fling every window open and turn on the Croatia Russia match.

Tony arrives after Croatia triumph. Steak and salad for tea. Gin and tonic for lubrication. Electric fans for ventilation.