Finger-nail moon, quiet cold, sod's law

Raising the blinds this morning, I see, against the bright blue sky, beside the chimney pot across the road, a pale moon reduced to a finger nail.

Perhaps it's the cold without a wind, this afternoon, which makes things seem especially quiet, although the usual things are happening in the Grove. I hear the drone of an aircraft, children's voices, the workmen renovating the paths; but around me, when I stand still, I also hear the footsteps of people passing.

Sod's law, which insists that buttered bread always falls butter-side down, seems to work with the post, which always arrives address-side down.