Yesterday my Afghan neighbour turned up for a signature (mine is worth more than his; I wonder why that is), saw some mint in my garden and told me he was going to take some for his garden. Fine, I have lots. This morning I got some back, deliciously, for breakfast (see extra).

This evening I went for a drink with some of the colleagues I retired from two years ago and a group of their new colleagues. An utterly lovely bunch. I miss them.

Then at nearly 11pm the whoops, cheers, chants and car horns in my already very noisy bit of Oxford told me that England had won a football match. Who needs a radio or a smartphone, eh!?

Such noise that I decided to go out to the main road. I followed it past a queue of stalled buses towards the flashing blue lights where a large number of police officers were wondering what to do about a bunch of merry fans dancing in the street and blocking the traffic both ways. Maybe in the hope of talking to someone who might listen they told me to go home - given Covid. (News reports today say that my bit of Oxford has the highest Covid rates in the country.) I moved to watch the antics from the other side of the road and when I did amble home I bumped into my Sylheti neighbour. He was was obviously also very happy and asked me if I was. I tried to explain that I don't understand either football or what it is to feel English but we don't speak the same language and I gave up.