Went back home and had lunch with Elisabetta and Emiliano.
Went with them to pick up Eleonora from school, drove them to Stansted airport, dodging the traffic resulting from two car accidents.
Drove back to Richmond, worked for an hour, went to Sheen to return some videos, went back to the office, picked up William and Christian.
Drove to the station, parked the car, got on the first available train. Went to the TLS party in Knightsbridge.
Met a few friends and fellow publishers, glimpsed AC Grayling, Eric Hobsbawm and AN Wilson.
Left at 8:00, went to the Waldorf in Aldwych, picked up two friends and had dinner with them. Ate fish, drank Armagnac.
Ran across Waterloo Bridge to catch last train back to Richmond.
Caught fast train by a whisker, reached Richmond, got on first bus and arrived home before Midnight.
Checked my email, replied to a couple of messages, checked the Guardian online and found out that Michael Jackson was dead.
Read news reports on Wimbledon, read Canto VI of Aeneid in CH Sisson's translation.
Went to bed and slept eight hours – first time in many years.
* * *
You see? It's easy to do it, but I think it's also meaningless, and let's be frank: no one cares about what someone else is doing or has done. Any story, to be interesting, must to be told in a proper way, using language for what it was invented for: expression. And I firmly believe that reducing everything to a Twitter message – including classics apparently – is one of the most moronic regressions dreamt up by mankind.