It is the morning of 13 September 1759. On the Plains of Abraham, just outside the walls of Quebec City, Britain is losing its great gamble for world power.
I have become half-obsessed with Steven Moffat's excellent updating of Sherlock Holmes for the BBC. At the time of writing, I have seen only the first two episodes, back to back, but am very impressed.
Sweets and batteries by the tills - isn't that the way of it? And Good Housekeeping, too.
The Yorkshire Wolds make for an unimpressive horizon. Middling chalk downland that struggles north from the Humber for 40 miles, they fail to be truly noticeable at any point between the M62 and the coast.
The school holidays. Jesus wept. Because booking things months in advance is not exactly my strong suit, this involves schlepping back and forth between the Hovel and the family home in Shepherd's Bush.
The phone rings for some time before the man behind the reception desk picks up the receiver, listens and then says abruptly, "No, they are not ready. We did say ring for your results on Tuesday. Today is Monday."
To Toy Story 3 with the children. I know enough by now about my own state of mind and the efficiency with which the good people of Pixar can churn the human heart, so I am bracing myself.
The weather is being a bit silly right now, alternating between rain and brightness, but I am holding on to fond memories of last week's mini-heatwave.
This, then, is how we take our leisure when the sun comes out in 21st-century north London. We are at the canal, where the Victorian architecture rots and crumbles and a crowd has gathered to soak up the sun and alcohol.
To the new doctor down the road. Until now I have resisted registering there on the grounds that . . .
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Andy Burnham's remark that electoral reform was a "fringe pursuit for Guardian-reading classes" is ironic, given that the editor C P Scott served as the Liberal MP for Burnham's Leigh constituency from 1895-1906.
"I'm tired. Go away."
“Sorry, give me a minute."
“I'll be with you in just a . . ."
“Sorry, I'm not quite myself today."
When spirits are down and the pubs are shut, nothing quite lifts the heart like a game of night cricket.
I often have a kebab, though not as often as I might.
In 1881, Walter Powell, the MP for Malmesbury since 1868, was lost when piloting the army balloon "Saladin" with a Captain Templer and a Mr Gardner.
This year's Wimbledon is nearly over, but one of its biggest and most enduring stories was written in the first few days.
I am settling into a very sedentary, comfortable existence. Nowadays the big excitements of my quotidian life revolve around the London Underground.
The early labour movement had a hostile attitude to Robert Baden Powell's Scout movement - suspecting it of imperialism - and often heckled his meetings.
The weather's been delightful recently. I know this because I have to keep drawing the curtains so I can see the World Cup properly on my TV.