Flying dustbins

I’m at my parents’ house watching Strictly Come Dancing. My Dad keeps referring to Lisa Reilly as a “flying dustbin”, which I think is rather unfair. I like her enormously. He’s also just described Richard Arnold as a “professional pratt”, which seems about right. I suspect Arnold himself would describe himself no differently.

This morning, Fiona, Meriel and I went for a lovely breakfast in Muswell Hill before heading to Hampstead Heath for a walk in the late autumn sunshine. I’m surprised that there are still leaves on the trees this late in the year. The place was an absolute riot of rainbow colours from the blue of the sky and the green of the grass to the reds, oranges, yellows and maroons of the leaves hanging like sparkly jewels from the branches of all the trees.

350 years ago, Pepys went to bed with his mind in something of a pickle. He’d fallen for Winifred Gosnell as a hugely appropriate live-in companion for his wife, but Gosnell’s mother was umming and ahing as to whether to let her go. Pepys was also in a pickle about his wife’s spending - 12l in one day on linen, copper, and various household fittings.