Up before dawn this morning- couldn't sleep, worried, and an aching tooth. Amazing being in a city just as the light is coming up. I could hear the chimes of Big Ben striking 4am drifting down the Thames. A lonely bus pulled into the terminal, picked up a solitary worker and pulled off. A police car screamed by, sirens blaring, closely followed by an ambulance. A group of seagulls wheeled and screetched their wake-up calls, quite mysterious shapes silhouetted in the lightening sky. I looked down on empty offices with lights dimmed, and, unaware that I was watching, a cleaner started to vacuum. The air actually smelt fresh and clean and cool, in contrast to how it generally smells later in the day. Then the sun started to rise, miraculously sending rays which transformed the roof tops and office windows, making them glimmer and shimmer--- the city was coming alive at the start of another day-- The general low rumble that is a constant accompaniment to life in London grew louder, the bridge got busier, and my toothache got worse, so I'm off to the dentist. But you know, I miss the early morning sounds of childhood, being an old romantic-- that clink of the milk bottles, the delivery of the newspaper through the letterbox-- shall we ever have that again -? Only, I fear, if we were to move out of Central London---so you can't have everything and it WAS a rather magical time at 4am this morning---

I've just noticed that my skin is different to how it used to be--it kind of falls in folds around my stomach a bit - I lost a bit of weight last year and didn't notice it then -- it reminds me of those pictures of old men one sometimes sees- (though of course I am not old really!)-- the other pain is that I can't seem to straighten one finger --I guess that is a bit of arthritis? 1000 mg of fish oil coming up! And we both have these "age spots" appearing - it is entirely natural I am told but I remember looking at my grandmother's hands and thinking I didn't want to have hands like that--- well, hey ho, looks like we are going that way whether we like it or not! At least my head of hair is still a crowning glory- the hairdresser says I must have some Mexican in me, it is so strong and thick! We are still comparatively SO lucky though. There is an amazingly high statistic for people who retire and drop dead within the first six months -- they simply can not cope with not being defined by their work and feel lost in the world. We are truly enjoying the coming of spring, the lighter evenings, we have a true sense of hope for the future even though we are taking the biggest gamble of our life in selling our flat and not looking for anywhere else until the money is in the bank (well actually an internet bank where we can get 5.6% interest or more- we swap our meagre savings around with some regularity, another thing we have time for--).So, forward into the day---

Retiring, as we are,gracefully,we went to a private view of"Unknown Monet"at the Royal Academy last evening. We stood with half of Middle England, queueing in the courtyard with a freezing wind buffeting us- when who should come slowly down the steps towards a waiting car but Lady Antonia Fraser,glorious in a purple pashmina, and Harold Pinter, walking with a stick, looking very frail. How amazing to see them in real life - they had obviously had a REAL private view-- Anyway, we held back in the queue to let them pass by us-funny how one really admires true talent, not all those B-listers. What a great exhibition too! The value of these Times-organised private views is that, for a relatively small sum, you get a v.good talk by someone passionate about Monet, the ability to see the exhibition 1 person deep, (instead of 4 or 6 deep,as at the Tate's Hogarth exhib.,) and you get to drink wine and eat nibbles in two extraordinary golden gilded rooms which are re-hung each time we go. And you even get a goody bag at the end-one of whose contents was a special Monet oyster card holder- Liz has bagged mine already- she is like a child in her glee!One of the ARTS of the private view , apart from admiring the paintings obviously,is to move nearish to the wine waiter- if you just happen to be standing near one you can certainly get a nice full refill,(or two!) making your ticket even better value!Home to smoked salmon/philedelphia rolls and another glass of white wine-- v nice evening!

I sit looking at the old tea caddy decorated with an ancient scratched coronation picture. I am at Mrs B's with the last ever batch of ironing. She is brewing me a proper cup of tea with tea-leaves (none of this teabag stuff!)There is a magnificent patchwork tea-cosy on the tea-pot and a plate of hot-cross buns next to it and some Tesco finest strawberry jam. The mood is sombre. Mrs B has been with us for longer than I dare think. She started cleaning our first house over 30 years ago, and has been with us through thick and thin. When her artificial leg finally became too much of a nuisance, she started doing our ironing, and my god could she iron! Even my shirts with frayed and battered collars and cuffs came back looking as though, put them in cellophane and they could have sold as new! I must admit it has always been one of my little luxuries to have a shelf full of folded shirts. Liz tells me I now have to get used to hanging up my shirts in the cupboard - neither she nor I can fold to save our lives (let alone iron, actually) and anyway, life is too short----Now my 60s retro black polo necks seem a good option --except summer is coming. I am not a jeans and T-shirt sort of chap but the LandsEnd seersucker shirts aren't atall bad, and they don't need ironing! Anyway, Mrs B is moving on, as indeed are we, hopefully, so it will no longer be economic to drive all the way over to the other side of London with a basket of ironing every week. So fare-well, Mrs B -- you were a treasure every home should have, and we shall put on a cuppa and raise our mugs to you.