It's been a beautiful day in Bournemouth. The temperature is in the mid-eighties, but it's not humid and there is a gentle breeze to stop us scorching. As I sit on the lawn in the shade of the apple trees I can smell the jasmine and the lavender, unadulterated by the whiff of singed goat. The barbecuers are not out tonight.
I know where they are though; I can here the strains of Elton John coming through the trees. He is playing tonight at the local football ground and both my daughters have gone.
Talking of football; England are out of the World Cup. As usual they have lost on penalties. Just as two years ago in the European Championships, they lost to Portugal. Just as 8 years ago their golden boy has been given a red card; then it was Beckham, today it was Rooney. England raise their game as they played the last half of the match with 10 against 11, but they couldn't score. Once again they go out in the quarter finals. For England that is par for the course. It is what they expected; no better, no worse. More shocking for Brazil to go out. The last four are France, Germany, Portugal and Italy. Four European sides and no South Americans; the balance of power has changed.
It's the second pop concert my daughter has been to this week. Earlier she was listening to the Pet Shop Boys at the Tower of London. It's something I've never done - been to a pop concert. Can't say I'd really want to.
Andy Murray beat Andy Roddick at Wimbledon. The young Scot gives the Glaswegians a double celebration: England defeated and a Scotsman making the second week in the tennis.
Freddie Trueman dies from lung cancer at the age of 75. England's fiery fast bowler from the fifties has bowled his last over. I guess he couldn't stand the England one day team being whitewahed by Sri Lanka.
All is quiet, now. I have been studying that remarkable poem. It keeps coming back.
The cells divide. The cells that will not die
divide too well and so they multiply.
They kill the host to keep themselves alive