Weather is disappointing as is the food. But Brenda and I trying to put our best face on things! Been to all the local attractions, inc. the castle. The hair museum was a highlight. Brenda had one of her tummies on Tues which meant I had to dispose of Cyril on my own. The look on his face when I hit him with that spade! Found a nice spot to bury him. Will tell you more when we’re back. Beach tomorrow if weather holds then home! Xx

If I am being honest with myself, my ISBN classification system has not been a success. It is simply proving far too difficult to find anything. I have decided to adopt a new organising principle – that of page extent. It was as I was in the act of re-sorting my bookshelves – moving all the slimmest volumes to the top shelves in the hope that this would remove Bramwell Price’s Spunk from my eyeline – when I noticed something sticking out of my copy of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave. It was the postcard that had fallen out of it at last month’s book group.

The postcard was to promote his book. The front was a reproduction of the book cover. I flipped it over, expecting the back to be blank. Instead, I found a handwritten poem on it. I recognised it: it was Toby Salt’s winning poem about the wind from January’s Well Versed magazine.

I stared at it thoughtfully for a few minutes before returning to the problem of my piles.

Monday November 19th

Sophie called me. She thinks something is up with Dylan.

‘He spends all his time in his bedroom,’ she said. ‘He’s not been doing his homework. He answers me back. He avoids Stuart whenever he can.’

This was all wonderful news.

‘That sounds like completely normal behaviour for a sixteen-year-old boy to me.’

‘I knew you’d say that.’

‘Well, it is. I was just the same at his age.’

‘I can well believe it. I think this is all your doing,’ she said accusingly.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I replied, mildly bridling.

‘You’re a bad influence on him. Whenever I ask him what he’s been up to at your house, he always says “nothing much”. From what I can tell, the two of you seem to spend the whole day on the sofa.’

‘Perhaps he’s suffering from galeanthropy?’ I suggested.

‘What?’ I could sense Sophie’s levels of irritation rising.

‘It’s 21 across in The Guardian Bumper Christmas Cryptic Crossword. It’s the belief that you’ve become a cat. It’s from the ancient Greek – galéē, which means—’

‘Oh, shut up, Brian. It’s not about cats. It’s you. He’s even started listening to The Smiths.’

This was also wonderful news.

‘Ah, yes, that may be my influence. Better them than Huey Lewis and the News, though.’