Oh, Babe, it's more Retirement Diary

I had thought that a retirement present that would last would be the Complete Bach Cantatas on 72 discs but instead I had an incinerator I don't think I can use because we're not supposed to have fires. I'm not listening to much music, though. Mendelssohn's Octet was a fine thing on the lunchtime concert today but I'm not habitually putting on records or leaving the wireless on.
The daytime quiet is a fine thing and much to be delighted in. Unlike the gathering going on a few doors down this evening. I dare say it's harmless enough, or is it, but I take my older generation turn in simply not understanding the awful racket that represents the pop music of people much younger than myself. My friend Richard's father famously didn't reckon much to The Sweet doing Wig Wam Bam on TOTP and mine asked how did I know whether Hawkwind were playing Silver Machine right but we knew they were masterpieces.
On the other hand, I recently heard Promises by Calvin Harris and Sam Smith and couldn't quite place where I'd heard that classic before until I realized it had been played more than once at a neighbour's party a couple of years ago. One has to live and let live and only hope that me reading essays on Elizabeth Bishop doesn't annoy them.
On the subject of which, Anne Stevenson drew my attention to something called In Prison today. I couldn't find it in the Complete Poems and thought, oh no, are the Complete Poems not complete but it's in the Collected Prose so that's something to look forward to going back to. What Anne quoted seemed to be like a poem I was very vaguely trying to find the words for - it's best if the words come first. I expect Elizabeth will have made a better job of it than I could and so I'll be able to stop worrying about that one.
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I went to Portsmouth Central Library today, on a mission related to a project in progress, but also for the walk. I had to fill in a form and tell them what I wanted. It looked like I was the only one who wanted to look at books. Everybody else in there was using the computers and, having looked at two books, I had to leave them on a table for de-contamination but they were the only two books there. Thanks very much to those staffing Portsmouth Central Library. I found what I wanted and if I'd ordered one of the books I'd have ordered the wrong one because what I wanted wasn't in the book I thought it was.

Forthcoming, beyond this mundane chat celebrating the first weeks of not having to get up until I feel like it (but, eventually, one does), it will be August tomorrow and then September, it says here, promises new titles from possibly my two favourite living poets, Sean O'Brien and August Kleinzahler, so there might be something new and worthwhile to talk about. And then, maybe one day, the project in progress might be something. It's unlikely anybody that reads it will enjoy reading it more than I'm enjoying writing it, though.