Yesterday disappeared. I missed it in my diary. NOTE: a diary is different from (than? - which do you prefer?) (There might be a Canadian-American difference here) a blog.
This morning I was slow. My body seems to know it's Sunday even if I don't. So when I finally sat down with coffee and recapped last night, that was my full report for Saturday. That's okay. My diary is not really a diary. As diaries go it's worthless. My diary is really a long long long conversation with my late (very late) husband who died - lo - these 44 years ago. My diary is coffee time with Bill, not much use to anyone doing social historical research.
I used to keep - attempt - a diary a long long time ago but I wasn't faithful and it was what I called a Bleat Book, just bleating and moaning about having no time to write. Then suddenly I had all the time in the world and so I started coffee time with Bill and a pen. That's my diary. Now these days I don't seem to have any time at all because I'm so busy writing I don't have time for anything else. My blog has become the recipient of bleats: My Bleat Blog.
Be careful what you wish for.