My notebook is full and ready to give way to a new one. I see that it is dated June 7 2012. That is the only date. It is in no sense a diary. Yet it contains the fleeting impressions of a year in my life. Most of the notes are illegible although I have tried hard to write neatly and coherently.
At the end of the checkout a vigorous woman offers to help me pack my few purchases. She is after a donation to her charity which is evident in the shape of a plastic drum with a slot in the top. The charity? Tunbridge Wells Gymnastics Club. I am entirely truthful when I say that I like to pack my own shopping.