I shouldn't complain, but Mondays at the main library do wear one down. The branch libraries are closed on Mondays, so that public access to the Internet is only available at main on Monday. We must spend the day approached by innumerable unfortunates without library cards, wanting "guest passes" for the Internet. Maddeningly, numbingly repetitive as it is, I have to remind myself what it means to them. Public service...
A reprieve at the end of the day to attend a memorial service across the street at Trinity Methodist, for the wife of T. who is an usher at Blessed Sacrament. I had not known that his wife was a Methodist. She was a schoolteacher and a singer, which is telling, because Trinity has many educators, and Methodists are well-known for their choirs.
There were maybe a dozen Catholics there besides R. and me. We all seemed awkward at the entrance afterward. It didn't seem like any of us were going to the reception. I don't suppose any of us actually knew T.'s wife. We showed up for him, but were lost among the multitude of real mourners.
Reading An Age Like This, 1920-1940, the first volume of George Orwell's essays and letters, I find it much more satisfying than the diaries. They are more composed, being meant for other eyes, and not private notes like the diaries.