The rain is pouring, pouring, down onto the streets and brick sidewalks, onto the green hill, into the gray fidgeting bay. The doll-house windows run with water; wind whips at the wheeling gulls.

But yesterday was lovely. I wore sandals to the farmers' market. We bought a fresh duck breast and a pint of lion's mane mushrooms and a bunch of green garlic and a bottle of local cider, so I suppose you can guess that the beef-stew-and-artichokes plan was postponed.

And now we have a Sunday without intent. I might actually put on my rainboots and go out and purchase a paper copy of the New York Times. It seems like one of those old-fashioned days that should be spent among piles of newspaper and cups of coffee.