West wind

A day of chores, some very tedious. We ate early so that Mr H could go out to a meeting and while he was out I spent some time trying to organise the books on my Kindle and downloading a few new ones. Being loath to part with money if at all possible I have a strange and motley collection of works on it, mostly classics that I've never got around to reading . I just looked at a few of the unsorted ones - Machiavelli's The Prince, Mark Twain's Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Dickens' Our Mutual Friend, Abbott's Flatland.... and where did that Anglo-Saxon grammar come from? Anyway, having just finished James Hogg's "Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner" my flabber has been well gasted and I'm ready for anything. Well, maybe not Proust.

But the unsorted titles on the Kindle would have made a fairly dull monochrome blip, so I looked out of the window and noted that according to the weather vane on the old Corn Exchange, the wind is still coming from the west.