To get home from the station after work, I walk down a street which used to be called Cottage Grove. The houses are a bit more than cottages, more urban villas - front gardens, stairs up to the front door, blackbirds singing. There are lots of trees in the street which at this time of year with the leaves unfurling are dapply and, for the short sighted in the dusky light, pure Monet.
I popped into the polling station on the way. I love voting. It was such a mystery when I was small that I still can't quite believe I'm allowed in. There's an odd sense of community, doing your duty. You always meet one or two people you know and there's a suppressed sense of expectation.
When I got home I found this. We'll come back to these scrapbooks another day, because it's interesting to see how the things you like don't change and appear again and again as motifs in what you do.
Too much excitement in one night? Don't you believe it. There was wine to pour, the post to open and the contents to read. And a lovely photo of the East End WI president on the front page.
Is this really what it's come to? Is your pelvic floor letting you down? Will Ken really lose to Boris. Mayday, mayday.