1970s, 1990s, 1960s, 1940s.
I never learn. The previous night's lovely nine-hour sleep was followed by sleeplessness last night which made me unable to get down to work, or an article, or even the Top 100, much. My boss was after stuff I should have done yesterday, and I was getting "need your credentials" pop-up, which are simple for IT to solve, if it I could get them to ring me back.
Having given up on the idea of a VAT-fiddle article, in favour of a Combination reminiscence, which I still wasn't confident about, I made another search for the "rowdies" report from the 1970s, and found a "crisis" report I could use almost in its entirety, and save the other ideas for another series.
Elina wanted a chat but I put her off. Her boyfriend has now been suspended from work. We got a katsu curry at lunchtime, and not for the first time in the area, we saw someone famous: Paul Whitehouse, though of course he looks a lot older now than he did in the 1990s.
Jack and I went for a run after work, ate a delivery from Temple of Seitan,
then had a bit of a cuddle, while watching a Portillo documentary about some marshland in Suffolk which was secretly used in the 1960s to develop nuclear weapons in the Cold War.
I went back to the pre-coronavirua custom (when I didn't used to have much time at home) of doing the washing-up while the telly's on - Dragon's Den and the news. They covered the anniversary of Srebrenica, which I remember shocking me when I was 12 - and had a story about a teenage girl who made crucial calculations which helped win the Battle of Britain, when the Royal Air Force saved the country from Nazi invasion while my mum was being born.