One evening's walk this weekend led me to a box of books, and in it the collected Peter Wimsey short stories. I thought Oh goody! and picked it up. Then thought again, read a page or two, and put it back. No, alas, at my age I really can't be having with Wimsey. *Deep* desire to bean the smug git with a frying pan.
Also: I had three squash growing in my pool. I now have one. Squirrels somehow got in and ate half the little pale green one; the littlest green one has vanished completely. Swathed the middle-sized dark green one in netting, but should probably harvest it soon; no guarantees it'll be there come morning.