George Michael's house

On our way back from the gym today, we passed George Michael's house up in Highgate Village. The entire front garden and pavement outside has become a shrine of flowers, candles and Cypriot flags. A car parked in the drive is similarly bedecked with ephemera. That man was well loved. It's rather strange to think he lived just up the road. I never saw him wandering about on the streets, as we'd often see Victoria Wood. 

I spent so much of the day doing admin that I think I've turned into some sort of hermit-like accountant. I didn't sleep much last night. I woke up in the middle of the night yelling, and realised I'd been dreaming about money! It was impossible to go back to sleep, so I sat in the sitting room through the wee smalls, working on another application. I rather like being awake at that time in the morning. A stillness descends and the air becomes thick with a speckled wall which looks a little bit like a translucent version of one of those snow storms you used to get with old-fashioned tellies.

There's not a lot else to say. I'm so astonished by what Donald Trump is doing and saying in the US. I just can't quite believe he's for real, and this isn't some extraordinary episode of Candid Camera. He is clearly a narcissist who sets out to punish anyone who disagrees with him or crosses him. Heaven knows how this is going to pan out on the world stage. Not very well, one assumes.