We had a conversation with my mother about how we're all set in our ways. She apologized for being snappy. I said, "Never mind, if you snap at us we'll snap back."
We took her to a monthly lunch for the widows and widowers of the village. Then, with a couple of hours to kill before we picked her up again, went into Paddock Wood, found the library was closed, ate a quick take-away and did the rounds of the charity shops.
I'm dipping into a book of off-cuts by Alan Bennett (picked up in one of the charity shops). Last night I read his pieces on Auden and Larkin. With one or two exceptions- Browning, De la Mare- major poets are the most frightful shits. I wonder why this is.
Ailz had another hideous conversation with her mother.
This morning I learned that my first wife's father has died. I remember him as a man of unfailing tolerance and goodwill.