I don't know where June went, but July kicked off with a gloriously sunny day in York. My great friend and former neighbour Mary had phoned to say that she was coming to York for a day, and could we meet? We've kept in touch through the years, but not met for over a decade. I had the joy of seeing the Minster through somebody else's eyes - she noticed details I've never seen - and it was too hot for lunch so we had ice crem and Pimms instead, and parted knowing that we should have done this years ago, and will again. Mary, a good Northumbrian, neighbour in a million, still making me think and making me laugh.
Thursday was York again, sun again, great company again, and this time it was strawberries and sparkly flavoured water. All the time, a new story that I can't yet discuss was fizzing, too, and taking new, funny exciting twists much better than the course I'd planned for it.
Today it poured, and Andy Murray NARROWLY lost the semi-final. Andy, you are a star, you Great Scot, you will win it one day, and you can ignore any sneering pundits who sit in their comfortable chairs with their ice-old drinks and try to say otherwise. Anyone who can even see those serves, let alone return them, is a man to treat with big respect. Now go and walk the dog. He knows you're the best in the world.