Cistern, club and go.

1. We've got water of some kind -- the sound of the loo cistern filling is pretty good to hear this morning.

2. Susan has invited to us a concert in her London club. It's glorious, with high ceilings, a vast marble staircase and ornate tiling and stately, lumbering old-fashioned furniture. Past members look down on us from larger-than-life formal portraits -- some do seem to be challenging our presence, but others seem more benign. 

3. A passing French man tells us that we should walk past the no entry sign and look at the pictures if that's what we want to do.

Consolation, Effra and icing.

1. I flee Tunbridge Wells and its water woes for a day of wandering London with my aunt. A bit of Turner, a bit of Constable and some miscellaneous pre-Raphaelites. Turner's gift to the nation truly does give me a break from the treadmill cares of carrying bottled water and kettles and permanently feeling slightly grubby.

2. We come past the Isle of Effra with its bronze loo sculptures, which we're told mark the nearby Royal Doulton ceramics works, but could just as well nod to the River Effra's time as a sewer.

3. There are concerns about the whiteness and the quantity of butter icing. I walk away and leave the pastry chef to her work. When I come back, things are much more cheerful.

Fairly Christmassy, queue jumpers and advent calendar.

1. For the last few weeks, polling company YouGov has been wondering how Christmassy I feel. Today, I can answer honestly that I'm now feeling fairly Christmassy.

2. Because we are on foot, we can walk past all the cars to the front of the water queue. But then we have to carry all our bottles home again.

3. We have an advent calendar on the computer to play with this evening, with tiny low-stakes games and little surprises. 

Rainwater, heave and tiramisu.

1. The softness of rainwater -- unthinking I lather my hands with the usual amount of soap, and then find I can't rinse it off.

2. I dive into the cupboard we call Narnia and half-stifled by garment bags and suitcases, I heave and pull and drag the early decorations out into the house.

3. Bettany and I wait a little after supper before eating our pudding -- in fact, we wait until she's got ready for bed. It makes our bowls of tiramisu seem... I don't know, sort of festive, luxe and maybe slightly illicit.

Castle Street, fan and melting.

1. I am staring at the meal deals in the minimarket when I realise that what I really want here is a coffee and a sandwich made in front of me. So I go round the corner to the sandwich shop on Castle Street.

2. We are very pleased to have a fangirl on the sofa, watching Stranger Things surrounded by Panini sticker debris.

3. It's the time of year when butter melts on toasted crumpets.

Doing dips, practical and post.

1. I'm into week four, and to my surprise, I'm doing triceps dips. Not very well, and I can't manage the whole forty-five seconds, but I'm doing them.

2. At coffee time, there's a book parcel -- one of my suspense edits, The Good Girl by Trish Dixon -- and the latest Fortean Times.

3. The biology teacher suggests a practical we could try at home and it feels like something we might have a go at.

Right paper, bin night and correspondence.

1. I have just the right paper -- tiny Japanese pages, not much larger than business cards, printed with wisteria in full bloom.

2. Bin night is a tedious chore, but the house always feels lighter with the rubbish chased out of the door.

3. I have leisure this evening to start writing a reply to an email.