Long to rain over us.

Wake at seven thirty to a rainy, jubilee Sunday. Breakfast on smoked salmon and cream cheese on rye, with coffee, then wash and dress and drive to St. John's for nine o'clock mass. It is Holy Trinity Sunday, the hymns are nice and the sermon on faith being non-intellectual resonates, for me religion is about feeling the presence of God, everything else is an act of interpretation. But there again I am an old mystic, the most powerful sermon is living silence. After Mass I collect Leslie and we drive to Caffe Nero in Saturday Market, where we park easily, despite half the square being cordoned for the erection of a bandstand for the Diamond Jubilee celebrations tomorrow. Perhaps it's the rain, which continues relentlessly. As I queue for our Americanos and pain au raisin, I am joined by Rolando, who has just returned from holiday in Tuscany with his wife. His cafe is closed on Sundays. Leslie and I air our usual concerns and then Leslie mentions a new one. He is worried that his GP, Doctor Hill, may retire before Leslie dies. Dr Hill is about fifty and Leslie ninety! You have to admire his optimism. After taking him home, I call at the supermarket for some shopping, and then get back to Tickton about noon. It is still raining steadily. I spend the afternoon ironing and listening to the radio, before making a chicken stir fry for a late lunch. Towards six, drive into Beverley and park at the top of Westwood Rd, which is resplendent with bunting and union flags, their street party was today and the rain has been steady and remorseless. Felicity is thawing out, she attended the party, but said it was cold, wet and a bit of a damp squib because of the weather. I leave around seven, drive home and eat Camembert and crusty bread before reading until bedtime. The news is all about the Queen's diamond jubilee and the great flotilla on the Thames. What a fuss over the achievement of managing to be inoffensive, in the service of entrenched privilege, for sixty years.