This week has been a week of not doing.
Not doing housework, not going out on my bike, not spinning, not watching TV, and definitely not going to the Regatta in Durham today. Not even a great deal of knitting - well, there's been knitting, but on a jersey that will take a while yet to finish; thin yarn, lots of stitches, and working out the design as it proceeds.
What there has been a lot of is sitting in the conservatory, reading. The supermarket provided me with a couple of books, and another one came from Waterstone's. I only went in there with DH, who bought nothing; I was well into the first chapter, so I had to buy it to find out how it finished. That was The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, by Kate Summerscale, about the Kent murder in 1860. Then I read the other 2 - The House at Riverton by Kate Morton, and Case Histories by Kate Atkinson. Both were "can't put down" books, read almost in one go.
Which is a bit of a surprise, because I'm not normally a keen reader of fiction.
The house-martins have fledged one chick at least, and now there's a second nest underneath the first one - an extension for a second family?
Enormous quantities of bird seed are being consumed from the feeders. And today I went out to investigate a grey shape on the back lawn (was it a debris from a tree?) and found it was a small chick, very recently hatched, eyes not yet open, no feathers, dead as a doornail. Perhaps dropped by a magpie or the woodpecker. It's been buried near the juvenile blackbird (found dead under the feeder) at the bottom of the garden.