Currant state of play

We forgot the excitement of the Lions' rugby triumph and Murray's Wimbledon, a week ago, in the fever surrounding the England win in the first Ashes test yesterday - a fever more concentrated because of the game's intense fluctuations over its five days. 11 o'clock came and went this morning with a distinct feeling of anti-climax, and still we have three days to wait before another round of cricketing battle with the old enemy commences.

Meanwhile, our blackbird has relocated her old nest: we moved it from by the back door into the store in our sunless area, and she is once more sitting on eggs. And Caroline is battling with the the currant glut, trusting to her painting stool, with its canvas much in need of replacing. "Do you suffer from the tyranny of fruit?" Tamara Talbot Rice was wont to ask.

Who's the boss?

We had planned a picnic in Imperial Gardens to go with our four tickets for the Swingle Singers this evening, but the tickets have gone in the bin. Our guests preferred a cosy stretched out supper in our sitting-room while we watched Murray struggle through his tennis semi-final: nail-biting stuff as always, as he bids to win the Wimbledon men's title. Singles, not Swingles therefore.

When the match was eventually done and dusted, some of us got in the car for the other half of the curious cultural double bill for which we had booked - Poulenc's one-act opera, La Voix Humaine. Arriving a little late, we squeezed in at the back of the Parabola: it then took a while to adjust from the brutal serve and return routine we'd been watching on TV, to a stage bedroom where we listened to one end of a 40-minute long telephone conversation, sung in French to a piano accompaniment.

With the telephone now more than ever the bane of our lives, this Poulenc (written 50+ years ago) seems oddly prescient.

On our way out, a little dazed, we passed through the exhibition of Noye's Fludde props (brought from Tewkesbury after last night), and were able to admire James Mayhew's beautiful designs at close quarters.