Waking up in Portland again, after a whirlwind trip to Vermont to watch my nephew graduate from high school. It was good trip, but for some reason very tiring: I went to bed at 8:30 last night, and slept like a boulder till morning. The driving was much of what wore us out, not least because our brakes were developing a shake, which is never comforting. But the visit was emotional too . . . the passage of time so visible; and that also, I think, contributed to our communal weariness.

This morning, we'll slip back into the accustomed grooves: Tom off to trim out windows in a big house by the sea; me upstairs to my desk to work on other people's books; Paul sorting through his stuff as he gets ready for his western adventure. I'll call the garage and try to book a car appointment; I'll catch up on laundry and food matters; I'll work a bit in the garden; I'll get back into my exercise-class swing and schedule a Zoom meeting and answer emails and probably do a bunch of other things I'm not currently remembering I need to do.

I was reading Raymond Chandler in the backseat of the car, but now that I'm home, I'm switching over to Claire Tomalin's bio of Jane Austen, which my mother just gave me. I'll let you know what I learn.