Let it be known throughout the land: I love shaving my legs. Under normal circumstances, I would not reveal this particular fact to all and sundry, but since I've just shaved my legs and received much joy from so doing, I'll mention it this once. Also, most women I know hate doing this, so perhaps my love is worthy of note.
Today I didn't do as much work as I wanted to. Mind you, this is true of yesterday, too. I seem to be able to work for about a three-hour burst, then stop, then come back and do another hour, then spend the rest of the time faffing around. Maybe this is as much as one can work in a day, if one's work is reading and transcribing? I don't know. But I'm inclined to feel that I need to try harder. So tomorrow I will. In fact, tomorrow I vow that I will embark on Thomas Reid - this involves getting some Rousseau out of the way first, so it's more of an undertaking than it sounds.
Walking around the streets of London today I was struck by how few attractive men I'm seeing. I mean, I see some, but not all that many. When I was in Oxford two weeks ago the place was crawling with good-looking men (not literally crawling, obviously), although admittedly most of them were not - or did not look - 40 or over. Have all the good-looking men decamped to Oxford? Of course, there were some lookers in Cambridge, too, which bodes well.
Okay, this post is empty of value, so I'm going to stop.
I really do love shaving my legs, though.