The eleventh

A distinctly dreich day strangely filled with random activities, none of which other than this photo bore any relevance to war or remembrance or history. It began with my feeling that really I'd just like to go back to bed; the rain was battering the windows and my throat was killing me. (Note to self: take care never to swallow bits of poppadum prematurely. I believe the correct term is pharyngeal abrasion; the pain in for the past three days reminds me of having my tonsils removed). But instead of hibernating I went to Pilates and found myself feeling much more normal, with the result that I went out again for the odd thing (including throat sweets) and took this photo of St John's church, overlooking Argyll Street. The grounds are looking better than I can remember, and the knitted poppies on the fence are a reminder of the season, but I've always felt disappointed by the interior of this imposing building. Now, if it was an Episcopal church ...

Other errands included a visit to a local printer to discuss terms for producing  a book (poetry - getting a publisher interested is too much like hard work) and a chatty visit to a fried who had pak choi growing in her garden and who had offered me one when I grumped in the supermarket about the lack of same. 

Then there was dinner. Mr PB attended an Asian cookery class last month, and tonight I was skivvying while he made a couple of the dishes he'd learned. There was an inordinate amount of prep - mainly very fine chopping - and we were both exhausted when we eventually sat down to eat. Triumphant, though - it was jolly good.

And there's a lingering miasma of fish sauce ...