The Dog Days are upon us. I recall with horror that I used to have to go to work in this stuff. It wasn't too bad in France, but here it's the sweaty masses in the overcrowded tubes and trains that make it horrible.

I seem to manage to get round the golf course though. Yesterday I played in the High Elms GC veterans' Stableford, and was equal best visitor (came second on countback), so things may be picking up. The course is very dry and even a mishit balls runs along nicely, as I kept checking. But it has a wonderful collection of trees. It is said that the previous owner of the land (his family, the Lubbocks, later gave the land to Bromley Council for the recreation of the inhabitants) used to walk with Charles Darwin, who lived nearby in Downe, and they planted trees together. True or not, it makes a nice story.

A very pleasant day, and I even won a bottle in the raffle.

I have the awning down and the back doors open all day, but the result is that the inside and outside temperatures are equal - 27º in the shade. There's no hiding place.

Terry Plumber came this morning to fix my drip. It didn't take long, but the bill will reflect the fact that he turned out. A bit like the dentist really, who starts his meter running the moment you sit in the chair. Fair enough. If you can't (or are disinclined) to do it yourself, you pay. I asked about replacing my 25 year-old heating boiler, a dream question for most heating engineers, but he says that it could see me out (he didn't put it quite like that, but I knew what he meant). He reckons he could fit a replacement oven and gas hob, so I will start looking around - not for a "bargain" but for one that will be the right one. After all, when your oven is as old and filthy as mine it has to be changed.

A brief pruning session just now has persuaded me to stay indoors out of the sun. Not hard to do, because this is where the beer fridge is. I have just been looking at the family tree of a man whose ancestor married the widow of my great-great-great grandfather Henry Wood, who died in 1804 at the age of 25. We're all related in the last analysis, and it's Adam and Eve's fault.

There will be screeching and grunting tennis ladies on the box, so I won't bother. I saw a few minutes of one of them who even screeched when her opponent hit the ball. Gag 'em is what I say.

Golf in the morning, then a weekend off for a change.