The Sage, a fortnight after his sale, is getting prepared for the next one. He's got an appointment tomorrow to value several items and has already agreed about half a salesworth of china - mind you, we only have 80-100 lots altogether. Only two auctions a year, and yet it takes a disproportionate amount of time and thought. Fortunate that the Sage's business is also his hobby, and one he never tires of. We've been discussing the finer points of various Mandarin patterns tonight, me with rather less interest than him. I feel that, by 11 o'clock at night, one should normally have finished work for the day, but it isn't work to him, so it does not occur to him. As a result, I feel a bit unrelaxed.
This week, I've mostly been buying train tickets. Oh, for the days when you just turned up at the station, bought a ticket and got on the train. Now, there's such a difference in price that one feels obliged to book well ahead, to commit to particular times even if they're well off-peak. The Sage and I are each going to London twice in the next few weeks - not together, of course, we only do that if we're going to an auction. I'd like to have gone with him next week, but I've got several things on and it's not possible.
Still playing the clarinet today. Mouth less sore, thumb too, a distinct improvement in technique. Maybe there is hope for me after all.
Today is the 88th anniversary of my mother's birth, although her last actual birthday was her 79th.
I feel that I've short-changed you today, darlings. Sorry. I've written some enthusiastic emails and it seems to have taken all my writing energy. Tomorrow, I'll do better.