It wasn’t a bad day by any means. I woke up (big +), watched some cricket, but I missed David Warner’s big day for Australia. Bangladesh had a formidable target number in the run chase, and they made quite an effort to catch the Aussies, but didn’t make it.

The latest item in the sex abuse scandal, a sexual assault by Joseph Bernadin, then a priest in 1957, who raped a teenaged boy. His Bishop knew of the assault. The Bishop, John Russell, later became Bishop of The Diocese of Ruchmond, Virginia. Bernadin became Cardinal of the Archdiocese of Chicago. Sordid.

I’m back swimming after a four day break. My neck and shoulder are sore again. Heat, ice, exercise, NSAID pain relievers keep the discomfort in check.

But you know, what? I’m happy.

On my television is the Afghanistan vs. England match from Old Trafford in Manchester. It’s a limited overs (50) match and England batted first, putting up 397 runs. That’s a formidable number to overtake but the Afghans are showing great pluck and determination. They probably won’t win, but they’re making a match of it. For a country known for grim, ugly, and nearly interminable wars, this genteel pursuit belies the stereotype we have of the “typical” Afghan.

Surprises are always welcome.

I got an email from Amazon showing a lovely floral print dress with a full skirt and a boat neck. Sleeveless.

“That’s a pretty dress,” I remark.

“It is, but I never wear dresses any more and we shouldn’t spend the money on something I will never wear,” she replied

And a little of me died in that exchange. I know what she wears, every dreary cotton knit top, every pair of khakis, every pair of jeans, every pair of cotton panties, every drab white or beige sexless brassiere, purchased at BJ’s or Target or, maybe even the auto parts store, for all I know.

Somehow, crushing attraction or charm, has become her goal in life. Making herself beautiful because it would please her husband doesn’t register with her. And I have no answer.

Rant over

So I’m sitting here watching Nicola White of Tideline Art go Mudlarking in the Thames tidal flats. She enjoys rooting about in the mud and conveys that enjoyment skilfully.

C, my younger son, took me to an Indian restaurant. The curries were spicy and flavorful He ordered lamb, I ordered goat. We both preferred goat. The dessert was a mango pudding, more of a custard that was the perfect dessert. My late brother Charlie studied Indian languages, so we both fondly remembered him whilst we ate.

I spoke with R, my elder son, when we got home. He wished me Happy Father’s Day, told me he was sick, and we would get together later.

Then C and I watch the rest of the India vs Pakistan ODI, which India won.

So with Nicola showing her tidal treasures, I bid you all Adieu.

I know. The metaphor is ridiculous, even creepy. The Brain, organ of thought and control wanders only to the extent its owner moves about.

But here I sit as my thoughts follow no particular direction.

1. I used to smoke a pipe, I miss fiddling around with the paraphernalia: pipe, lighter, pipe nail, tobacco pouch, pipe cleaners, tobacco. It was a hobby in itself. But how I felt was no fun.
2. Porn. The stuff is so bad. Yet honest sharing about sex is so compelling.
3. Swimming is so liberating
4. I don’t know what to fix for dinner.
5. I care less and less about sports with each passing day.
6. There is no “One Size Fits All” to human sexuality. But there is still room for rules.

This is a rather marvelous picture of the old days. I like sending the messages via pneumatic tube.

Times have changed. Alas.