If I hear someone talking about a flapjack...

He or she is going on about what we in the United States call a pancake. But the English 'flapjack' is... different; am thinking about this because the Guardian published a flapjack encomium earlier. (This is the first Monday that I've read there beyond skimming the endless plague 'coverage' in a month. Silly people are frothing over Dominic Cummings and his driving incident.) The Dictionary mentions the meanings a vanity case for face powder, a lapwing, some kind of hydraulic machine, some sort of somersault, and then we get to what I'm after here: a pan-cake, an apple turnover or flat tart, and-- finally, in the Guardian writer's sense-- a biscuit made of oats, syrup, and whatnot. One of the photographs accompanying the article depicted what looks exactly like a cafe-made granola bar; not, in my mind, a flapjack.

It is almost time for Sext, approaching midday. Have been cleaning. This house is old as such things go hereabouts-- built in the '40s of the last century, or so the story goes. The current owner, who is my landlady, has doubtless cleaned the floors and walls etc at some point after the conclusion of the Second World War, or of the Korean War, or of the Vietnamese War... but I don't know when that might have been; certainly was before she took up smoking a packet or so of cigarettes each day. My cubiculum, my own little room, I've cleaned myself since I moved in, obviously: I keep it quite tidy, thanks; but since I'm actually retired from remunerative work I thought I'd spend a bit of time and energy cleaning the house (I prefer two rather than three people fussing about the bathroom and the kitchen but the landlady is less likely to raise my rent if she can find someone to rent the departed housemate's room) so that it looks vaguely presentable. Almost wish I hadn't begun; my hands smell of bleach and cleaning agents. The mobile won't be able to identify my fingerprint by the time I'm done with what I want to do. There are no longer a pair of dogs about who piss everywhere (due to the infirmities of their age rather than any enmity against their mistress) and is no longer a dog about who sheds constantly (she had to be put down because of some malignant growth in her guts). The current dog is short-haired and fairly active, chasing victims only he can see in the back yard: so while there are paw prints when it's raining, well, that's an improvement upon what's gone before.

Now it is time for Sext, after exhausting my interest in flapjackery supra. Spotify's weekly mix for those who don't otherwise pay attention to their machine-derived playlists includes this Paisajes of Federico Mompou, although not performed by Benjamin Grosvenor.

Before Compline. I inhaled too many lungfuls or mouthfuls of bleach and cleaning liquid earlier and felt quite odd for a few minutes but that unwelcome sensation seems to have passed. Nothing tea won't cure! No one in Veneta seems to have been waiting for me to post a 'house etc wanted' advert on Craigslist, surprisingly enough. To the company of the jays and squirrels have been added the crows, occasionally, and a black, white, and orange bird with weird orange eyes-- I used to know its name but like so much else that seems to have vanished. No nap today and I'm struggling now to keep my eyelids open: so, it's time for Compline. Salva nos, Domine, vigilantes... not much chance of that, me being alert and watchful, I mean, not for four or five straight hours, anyway, although I've been waking at half past eleven or midnight (and using the opportunity to take the thyroid medicament) and then again sleeping soundly until 0215 or 0220 when I get up to pray the Office before the 0410 Mass celebrated at St Mary's Shrine in Warrington. 'Tis the feast of Saint Philip Neri.