JANUARY DAY

It's a grey day of nothing. And I enter a nothing of note note in this blog. Grey skies, grey air. Not even a sheen on the grass. Two National Speed Limit signs stand as policemen, but the semi fog holds them in discrete surveillance.

A neighbour of mine came. He is an ex policeman. A Chief Inspector, in fact. He's a man who asks the right questions. He suspects I have a background in MI5. This is something I neither confirm nor deny. Each time we meet he tries another gambit to gain an admission from me. Each time, I side step.

A friend of mine sent me some old walking guides to the North York Moors and the Yorkshire Dales and the Vale of York. They smell delightful. Old. Used. Proper.

Coming back from the boat, all my clothes acquire a particular boat smell. Mainly diesel but with damp back notes. It does not entirely disappear with washing them. That pleases me. You can go to Floris in London and have a personal aftershave made. Mine would have quite a lot of boat  about it.

Yesterday I titivated the bathroom ceiling. To get a scraper, and the right paint, I went to a great little independent DIY shop. It smells much like the boat. I give it two years, before online and shed retailing drives it out of business. The shopkeeper was very cheery. But neither of us could remember the name for those wrench, grip things that have a band to grab, for example, oil filters.

I discovered today that Roger Deakin and Martin Sorrell went to the same school, Haberdashers Askes. Both ad men!

George came with the dog. It's a delightful little hound. Very affectionate, very eager to please. Dogs can smell cancer. I didn't know that.

The markets are down. I've lost loads of money. Yet it's amazing how long it takes me to admit responsibility for this myself. Even "the markets are down" is a form of excuse. Anything, anything rather than blame myself. I have taken bad decisions. Repeat after me, Henry. I have taken bad decisions.