writing. The last couple of weeks at the Bank have been crazy busy,
which accounts for some of it. The busy evenings have been another
factor, but probably having nothing new to write about is the main
I am apparently the third fuinniest man in London, based on my
position in the contest last week.
We are all still well, except Christopher of course, but anyone
meeting him casually would not be able to tell, except possibly for
his lack of hair, though even so he has some. He is on a two week
break from chemotherapy, which seems to be a good thing.
He put away a ten-ounce steak yesterday lunchtime as we watched
Liverpool win a famous victory at Stamford Bridge.
Dawn breaks as I approach Capenhurst.