Wolverhampton

All is quiet. No trains, no sirens. Just a bit of birdsong and the like, and little girls singing Nelly in the street. That's a bit worrying. My muscles are aching from an extravagant cycle to the swimming pool, my hair excessively poofy from a windswept ride back. You can never feel as good as when you are freewheeling down a ridiculously large hill, in sunglasses of course. I had the intention of being home and getting back to reading, getting back to nature. So far I have managed the June issue of Vogue and realising the dilemma that whichever of four different ways back from the swimming pool I took, all of them involved an uphill incline. I do love Wolverhampton, even more so after learning that good old David Lloyd George (my favourite of our prime ministers) called the general election of 1918 here, but I feel I need to document it better. That may be a task for the summer.

Remedy for tonight, indulge in a bubble bath, a book and some nail polish. Lovely.