Sunday 28th December

It doesn't feel like a Sunday. I only went to mass on Thursday. I should have gone, but had had enough of waiting for the 108 bus, to take me to Blackheath and my knee - which is actually much better - afforded me sufficient of an excuse not to cycle.

Yesterday was a real adventure. No trains - engineering works - so took two buses to go to Walthamstow. Venturing into an exciting world where I am the only white ethnic Briton (or whatever we are supposed to say) on the bus. A black woman came to sit next to me and conmplained about the cold, which was savage and gave me some chewing gum. Of course I don't approve of chewing gum in public, but this merely added to the spirit of newness and adventure.

The 108 takes you to Stratford via the badlands of post industrial Bow. From Stratford to Walthamstow (257) takes you through another country. So many ethnic Asian food shops, with their display of fruit and vegetables outside, a challenge to the inclemency of the weather and a race memory of warmer climes. Men with preposterous beards, that look so fake you want to give them a tug, like Paddlington did, to see if they are fake. Women swathed up.

But the lunch party was fun. Some very nice neighbours and some familiar faces from Laurence's fiftieth. Martin, the rather grave stone mason, who may of been Laurence's late sister's boyfriend, and the tv producer who had bought her implausibly attractive fourteen year old daughter along. She, Mathilde, seemed a nice girl, although not very bright, but as I said, so utterly beautiful that one had to keep a grip on oneself not to stare.

Laurence's mum was there, looking quite sprightly I think. She didn't approve of me going on buses. I also met Jo's sister who has just been abandoned by her barrister husband of thirty one years, firstly for another man, and now for a woman. The rawness of the pain made me shudder. As did my failure to recognise the Jo of pre-tumour days from the wedding fotos on the mantel piece.

Laurence's cooking was surprisingly good. If anyone told me that I would find eating gluten free pasta salad enjoyable, I would not have believed them. The beef was excelllent, and the anchovies in the anchovy salad, to die for. Even that old - and not particularly loved staple of the buffet - the rice salad was really nice.

Poached pears also fantastic and the gluten free mince pies, which he'd sourced from somewhere. A boy magician, one of the boys from next door came in and did the most amazing magic tricks. He was clearly nervous, because his hands shook, but very good. He was fourteen, I think, and looked quite grown up until his mum came back. Boys look like boys when they are next to their mums.

It seemed quicker going home, perhaps because I believed it would actually work. I got home at nine and went straight to beddie in my lair. Delia was being a silly cat, as she thinks I'm a baby and wants to sleep on my face. Told her she had her own sofa to sleep on.

Would you believe it, Kibbles telephoned at three in a bad way because he couldn't sleep. Apparently Timothy had shouted at him for not being asleep at two. A very constructive approach this. I told him to go and make himself a hot drink and then imagine himself back in Croatia, and he could call me at four if he was still awake. Fortunately he didn't and I managed to stay up long enough not to miss his call.

Now I am trying to warm the house up, after only heating one room and the fire in the evenings. It is a big house. I shudder to think how much it must cost to heat it, and at our cavalier attitude to insulation.

The house is pretty much tidy and Harry and Timothy are on their way.