Z writes a letter and has nothing for lunch

Half past one. The Sage arrives home. "Have you had any lunch?" I asked. "Not yet," he replied - what a world of expectancy in those two words. Pity. "Um. There's no cheese left." "I'll go out and get some cheese." "Or there's eggs, but there isn't any bread." "I'll get a loaf. And post your parcel." I wondered whether to mention that I have nothing planned for dinner. I decided that's a disappointment too far, as yet. Anyway, there's always food, if one uses a bit of imagination. It's just a question of how well you can bluff.

The children are coming through soon for a couple of hours, or else I'd go and do some shopping myself. Apparently, they're looking forward to bouncing on our bed. They're not allowed to do that at home. I think it's one of the things that Grannies should allow - after all, when you don't have to deal with the consequences, there's a lot of fun to be had from being over-indulgent with children.

I've just written a long letter, a rarity nowadays. It is an actual letter, not an email, but it doesn't really count as a proper personal thing because I typed it. I know. This is not a good thing at all. However, I hand-write so little nowadays that much more than a signature is beyond my powers of legibility. Besides, as we only write to each other occasionally, I only know what I've said if I keep a record - otherwise I'll say the same thing several times and leave something vital out altogether. Conveniently, our birthdays are a fortnight apart and so my thank-you letter can go in with my present to her. This year, I've given her a hip flask. I have no idea whether this is a good present or a peculiar one, for one middle-aged woman to give another, but I'd not mind being given one myself, so I hope it's the former. She and I were at school together and still are friends, although we don't see each other for years on end.