I went to the gym and made my muscles ache: a good feeling. I showered again and then made the phone-calls. I put some laundry in the washing machine and sorted some that was dry into piles. Then I sorted the rubbish in the kitchen, removing junk mail from envelopes, checking that none of it was important: paper, waste, paper, cans, glass. An article or two caught my eye; one about Alzheimers and it worried me that I seemed to be failing all the tests.
It was lunch-time then so I ate at my desk and flicked open my Kindle and downloaded more Balzac. I read making notes about the way he wrote. the references to French history (which for him would have been recent events) and the slightly archaic vocabulary reflecting another time: 'poesy of their situation', 'phrenological study', 'lined his nose with snuff', a general marvelling at the 'German genius' and their 'capacity for reverie and mysticism', 'inutility', 'coquettishly', and the way 'capitalist' is a term of admiration rather than insult. And it seemed to me that there is so much already to read of such great worth, I wondered why does anyone bother trying to write more. So then, disconsolately, I did the ironing and listened to the last scrap of 'The Clockwork Bird Chronicle' by Murakami and realised why - there is still more to say.
And today I heard this: Albioni's second oboe concerto in D minor (opus 9) on the radio and loved it so much I repeated what it was again and again so I would remember it.