Sunday at Home

Having managed to mistakenly delete 90% of the blips I took this morning, I am left with this one of a star in the west shining over a photo of some very young looking Beatles.
Had these boys retired gracefully at this point we would have been more likely to remember them thus and not have to be subjected to the sound of old men trying to recapture their youth.

Speaking of which, pop idols seem to have been given the genes (or most likely, hair transplants and Grecian two thousand) for whole heads of dark hair at advanced age. Not for them, shiny bald pates which puts years on a man.....

However, I digress.
The bulletin on His Lordship's health is available now, and I'm glad to report he is feeling much better today, which is more than some of his fellow passengers on the flight from Delhi will be able to say, having sure as eggs are eggs caught his germs.
He felt up to strolling along in the early sunshine, well wrapped up of course -one cannot take a mancold too lightly- to have our usual Sunday breakfast of toast and marmalade in our favourite canal end café.
There is always that compensation for being home, but I am missing the excitement of the holiday.