Action without thought is empty; thought without action is blind – Goethe
While living with schizophrenia, I move between Tokyo and Osaka. Through this journal, I hope to quietly share moments from my daily life—and memories from the journey I’ve taken with my illness.
Sunday, September 7, 2025. A blazing sun. At 7:30 in the morning, we gathered at the tennis courts on the roof of the Naruse Clean Center. The city-run courts are built on top of a sewage treatment plant — a rather unusual setting. Fourteen omni-surface courts stretch out across the rooftop.
Our team, made up of five pairs, ten players in all, had only just been promoted to Division 2 in Machida City’s team competition last year. Today was our first time facing the division’s strong teams. Playing outdoors, the sound of the ball striking the racket carried as a dull, dry thud across the courts. My T-shirt and cap were soaked with sweat almost immediately.
Our first match was against a team called Orange, recently relegated from Division 1. We were crushed, 0–5. We dropped into the consolation round and scraped through the first match there with a 3–2 win, managing to keep our spot in Division 2.
It was brutally hot. From time to time, a breeze hinted at autumn’s approach, but the ultraviolet rays were fierce. I never let go of my parasol. During breaks I wandered around, searching desperately for even a scrap of shade. Of course, you can’t hold a parasol while you play, and by the end of the day, my face and arms were deeply tanned.
That day, my wife was also competing in the women’s team event at the same venue. The courts were crowded, and I ran into many familiar faces, chatting with quite a few people throughout the day. The matches wrapped up around 3 p.m.
Once home, I showered and prepared a bento to eat on the Shinkansen ride back. I kept it simple: reheated frozen beef bowl topping over freshly cooked rice, with broccoli and a boiled egg on the side. I had a haircut appointment at 5:30, and that finished after 7 p.m. My wife drove me to the station, and I boarded the Shinkansen. At this hour, I knew I wouldn’t get back to the apartment until after 10 p.m.
It had been a hectic weekend. When I left our home in Naruse, I noticed my mother looking a little lonely. We’d shared some peperoncino and a short conversation on Saturday, but today my wife and I were out the whole day, leaving her alone.
Next time, when I return in two weeks, I’ll make sure to spend more time with her. By then, the lingering summer heat will have faded, and I hope we can sit together in the cool breeze and talk at our leisure.
Saturday, September 6, 2025. The typhoon that had swept across Japan the day before left the Tokaido Shinkansen badly delayed. Having given up on returning to Tokyo yesterday, I boarded the Nozomi 116 this morning after taking a JR line into Kyoto. A white Nike cap pulled low over my eyes, a beige Uniqlo T-shirt, black sports pants, and high-cut black Converse on my feet. Two tennis rackets and a large bag in my hands.
The sky, freshly cleared after the storm, stretched brilliantly blue. In the morning, the air was still pleasant, but by noon the fierce heat had returned. Through the train window, the mountains shimmered in the sunlight, their greenery glistening as if polished. At Kyoto Station I bought a sandwich, which I ate with the coffee I had brought from home. The train was crowded with families and foreign tourists, the overhead racks crammed with oversized suitcases.
Tomorrow is a team tennis match in Machida. My sense for competition has dulled, so I had arranged to practice this afternoon with old friends in Tokyo. My wife would join as well. I wanted to feel the bounce and pace of the ball on the same court surface as tomorrow’s venue.
At Naruse Station, my wife was waiting in the car. “I bought them—garlic, chili peppers, and parsley.” “Thanks. We’ve got pasta at home, right?” Though we’d been in touch through LINE, it had been almost a month since we last met. Still, it didn’t feel like much time had passed. Tonight we had promised to cook peperoncino together.
After resting a little at home, we headed to the courts in Naruse. The sun was strong, but with practice starting at three o’clock, the heat was gentler than it had been around Obon. I focused on the themes I wanted to work on, letting the feel of the ball return to my hands. It had been a while since we all gathered. We caught up on each other’s lives, and I shared my recent days in Osaka. The mood was easy, the play relaxed. Adjusting to the bounce on this different surface was a challenge, but as preparation for tomorrow, the practice was more than enough.
Back home after a shower, I began cooking the peperoncino. Garlic and chili sautéed in oil, pasta tossed in while still steaming. But I had added too much chili. The result was fiery, almost punishing. With gulps of barley tea I managed to finish the plate, laughing with my wife and mother afterward about how to get it right next time. Another lesson, I suppose.
Later, with dinner behind me, I sat in my room with a glass of Scotch, the lights dimmed so that sleep might come easily. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks cracked against the night sky. Festival season. As a child I loved those summer fairs—the goldfish scooping, the ring toss, the cork guns at the shooting stands. Long ago, yet vivid in fragments. Who was I with back then? A classmate from grade school? Or was I alone? I can’t quite remember.
The fragments rise and fade, drifting faintly across the summer night sky.
Wednesday, September 3, 2025. By the time I got home, the surroundings were already dim. There seemed to be a few more clouds than usual. The morning and evening news keep reporting on the lingering summer heat, but I can feel that the days have started to cool down a little. While I feel relieved that the sweltering days are finally coming to an end, there’s also a faint sense of loneliness in the air.
Since I had a tennis lesson at 8:30 p.m., I kept dinner light with just a cup of instant noodles. Work has been busy these past few days, but I’ve regained enough strength to go to tennis practice on a weekday night. With a team match coming up this weekend, I wanted to check my serving form. I plan to keep my practice moderate so that it won’t interfere with work the next day.
The hottest summer on record is about to come to an end. As I headed out, the night breeze felt pleasant against my skin — a gentle reminder that summer was truly coming to an end.
Monday, September 1, 2025. After returning from work, I finished my dinner: grilled yellowtail, a few shumai dumplings, and a ham-and-egg rice bowl. Lately, I’ve been making a conscious effort to eat more fish, thinking about balance and health. Since I rarely cook it at home, I choose fish dishes at the company cafeteria whenever they appear on the menu. There’s something calming about eating fish, though I can’t quite explain why.
On my way home I stopped at the dentist. The X-rays showed a gap between my wisdom tooth and the molar beside it, a small space where food tends to get caught, raising the risk of decay. The dentist recommended extracting both upper and lower wisdom teeth on the left side. I hesitated. Years ago, I had the ones on the right removed at a university hospital’s oral surgery department, an ordeal that felt more like a major operation than a routine treatment. This time, though, my dentist—also trained in oral surgery—assured me that techniques have advanced, and that given the way my teeth are positioned, the procedure should be relatively straightforward. Reluctantly, almost against my will, I found myself nodding. Still, a weight settled in my chest.
I was given some counseling, too. Toothpicks, I was told, can widen the gaps between teeth; interdental brushes are a better choice. And, of course, I was encouraged to keep brushing after every meal.
When I glanced at the clock, it was already nine. Outside, the sound of a Hankyu train rumbled in the distance, rattling the windows for a moment before fading away. I didn’t feel like watching television tonight. With a team tennis match in Machida scheduled for the weekend, I’ve decided to attend a lesson tomorrow after work. Turning over my service motion in my head, I poured myself a small glass of Scotch. And in that quiet way, another ordinary day drew to a close.
Saturday, August 30, 2025. For lunch, I had soba with cabbage, carrots, and pork. Lately, I’ve been drawn to soba made entirely from buckwheat flour. Its flavor is rich, its texture slightly dry at first, yet springy and chewy at the core. I also enjoy the simple pleasure of finishing the meal with soba-yu, the warm water in which the noodles were boiled.
Though it was midday, I kept the curtains drawn. Scaffolding had been set up around the condominium for exterior work, and from time to time workers passed right by my window. My apartment is on the sixth floor. I can imagine how hard their job must be, but the sense of weekend freedom feels diminished.
Inside, the room was dim, a contrast to the blazing sun outside. A fan whirred gently, sending a soft breeze from my right. On impulse, I ground some coffee beans and brewed a pot. The grinder, once an experiment, has quietly become part of my household. The rich aroma filled the air. In this way, I passed a quiet afternoon.
As I leaned back in my chair, my thoughts began to drift. I found myself looking back at the past. My illness has settled now, but the years from twenty to forty-five were, for me, a “lost twenty-five years.” Outwardly, I lived in different places, met many people, and even married. Yet it felt as if I were walking through fog, always weighed down by invisible chains that made life heavy and difficult. Putting that sensation into words is never easy.
I remember lying down in the company infirmary during work hours. I remember slipping away to the hospital for garlic infusions after sleepless nights left me too exhausted to function. I remember the hallucinations that overtook me, the cruel treatment I endured from colleagues and superiors. The bitter memories seem endless.
Now that I am almost back to normal, I want all the more to savor life. I am content with my current work. My tennis has slowed a little with age, yet I still feel able to play competitively. My father’s guitar rests always at my side. I want to try new recipes, too. At the same time, I must remember to rest when my body demands it—pushing myself too far has always been my flaw.
Toward evening, when the workers had disappeared from view, I opened the curtains. The clouds in the sky were dyed orange by the glow of the setting sun. For dinner, I had chop suey bought earlier at the supermarket, with a spicy Korean glass-noodle soup. Tonight, I have a tennis lesson at eight. I need to repeat the service motion I’ve been taught, and there’s a new backhand swing I want to experiment with. These simple moments, more than anything, bring me a quiet sense of peace.
August 27, 2025, Wednesday. I came home from work and finished dinner with some leftover keema curry I had prepared earlier. For some reason, I felt like drinking red wine tonight—something I hadn’t done in a while—so I bought a cheap bottle of Bordeaux at the convenience store. Now I’m enjoying it with a bit of cheese I found at home. The TV is off. There’s no music playing. Only the soft hum of the fan turning, and from outside, the occasional sound of cars or motorbikes passing by. A new ceiling light, installed through the hometown tax system, shines above me. Its warm, incandescent-like LED glow casts a gentler light than I’ve ever had in this room.
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From 1991, when I joined my first company after graduating from university and receiving a diagnosis of depression, until around 2000—and again from 2000 to about 2008, after I was diagnosed with schizophrenia—going to work felt unbearable. My first job was at an audio equipment manufacturer, in a factory located between Ōmori and Kamata along the Keihin-Tōhoku Line. The neighborhood was crowded with small workshops and factories. I was assigned to design the chassis of projection TVs. It was an unfortunate beginning: a new graduate entering a company already weighed down by depression. Getting up in the morning was nearly impossible, so I was always late—running with my bag slung over my shoulder from Ōmori Station to the factory. My previous experience as a waiter in university had taught me the spirit of service, but such a mindset was useless in engineering design. I remember clearly the sense of despair that overcame me.
Symptoms of depression differ from person to person, but in my case, it felt as if my heart was gripped tightly by unseen hands. Nights were sleepless, mornings unbearable. I was often late, and my boss scolded me repeatedly. I panicked: How can I possibly survive decades of working life like this? Mental illness was poorly understood then; people looked at it with suspicion, so I kept silent about my condition. But the truth was, I was suffering deeply. Concentrating on work was impossible. I didn’t yet know how to manage my medication—taking too much sometimes sent me into an unnatural high, while other times I fell into crushing despair. I couldn’t control my own emotions. In that state, it was impossible to do my job properly. I made simple mistakes, failed to learn procedures, and was met with shouts from superiors and ridicule from colleagues. To cover up my incompetence, I would play the fool, trying to deflect their criticism. But inside, I was desperate—trying to catch up, trying not to burden others. Now I realize that may have been the problem. Mental illness is a real illness; it cannot be cured by sheer effort or a change in mindset. What I truly needed then was rest.
Some still believe that mental illness can be overcome by sheer willpower, but at that time such misunderstanding was even more common. Mental illness is not something cured by effort alone. Think of diabetes, a herniated disc, or leukemia—would you tell someone with those conditions to overcome them through willpower? Mental illness is no different. Once it progresses beyond a certain point, the person cannot manage it alone. They need medical treatment. Yet even some doctors and pharmacists lacked understanding. I remember once, when receiving a prescription for antidepressants, a pharmacist sneered: “This is all about willpower.” At home, I found little support either. My mother would tell me to “pray more,” while my father would only warn, “Don’t lose your mind.” I felt I could no longer bear living in that house in Naruse. Just then, a transfer to Shizuoka was decided.
In Shizuoka, I met a kind friend. For the first time, someone listened to my complaints without judgment, took me out for drinks, stayed by my side. How many times in life can one encounter such a friend? We were almost always together there. Perhaps that’s what friendship is meant to be. I was deeply grateful. To him, it may have been nothing more than kindness. But for me, it became dependence. And dependence, I feared, was not true friendship. Still, I could not help but rely on him. That life lasted just over a year, until 1998, when I was transferred again—this time to Yamanashi.
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Today, my wife called me, unusually. We spoke for nearly an hour. About changing her mobile phone, about my mother’s recent state, about whether we should get another dog someday, about her parents in Yamanashi. The topics were trivial, yet the conversation lingered. Everyone is trying to adapt to new circumstances—not just me. My wife, my mother, each of them in their own way. Perhaps we are all learning to adjust our use of time. And maybe that is why I, too, feel I can move forward again.
Like the lingering aftertaste of tonight’s red wine, I want to believe in the small steps ahead.
August 25, 2025. It was mostly a clear day. The heat outside was said to be relentless, but under COVID restrictions I did not leave my apartment, and so the true feel of the day remained beyond me. From my window I could see clouds drifting at times, but unlike yesterday, there was no thunder or sudden downpour. The day passed quietly. I worked from home—my first day back after a medical leave. Until yesterday, even the slightest mental strain would trigger a fever, but today I managed to perform at my usual level. My one-room apartment, rented for a solo assignment, has no space for a proper desk, so I sat in a deep chair in front of the television, balancing my laptop on my knees. Without an external monitor or mouse, I made do well enough. The only disturbance was the occasional jarring noise of roadwork drifting through the walls.
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During my lunch break, memories surfaced. The onset of my depression, ironically, was rooted in an event at the part-time job I loved most: waiting tables. In my university years, I had thrown myself into every challenge, eager to remake myself. By my junior year I was leading the tennis club and taking responsibility for training younger staff at my restaurant job. One day, as I moved across the dining floor, I noticed a colleague instinctively adjusting to complement my movements. That realization—teamwork—struck me with quiet awe. Though restaurant work was not sport, to me it was no less than a team sport. Recognizing that truth, I fell deeply into the work.
But juggling academics, tennis, and my job took a toll on both my body and mind. In my desperate bid to reinvent myself, I grew increasingly responsible, perfectionist, and unable to apply any brakes to my own effort. What I learned at the Machida restaurant could be summarized in simple terms: serve with heart; cooperate and care for others; read the situation and respond appropriately; apologize for mistakes; express gratitude to colleagues. For someone who had never managed group work in school, these lessons marked real growth. By the end, I even carried a measure of confidence, enough to pass along guidance to my juniors.
Then came the day that undid me. After a long shift on my feet—eight hours of carrying trays—I worked with a younger colleague on the closing tasks: sweeping and mopping the floor, restocking paper towels, straightening menus and chairs, scrubbing both restrooms, brushing down the kitchen, polishing counters and dishes. We did this for 620 yen an hour, nearly every day. In hindsight, the pay was poor, but naïve as I was, I never questioned it. The work was grueling, yet bearable when shared with others.
But my colleague thought differently. That day, he suddenly set down his cleaning rag. “What’s wrong? Let’s finish up and get out of here,” I said. He looked at me with an unfamiliar expression. “Senpai, I can’t do this work anymore.” “What? Why now? We’ve always done this.” “Why do we have to do this kind of work at all?” “What do you mean? If we don’t, others will suffer—the morning crew, the chefs…” “Let me be frank, Masato” he said.
What followed shattered the fragile confidence I had built.
“Not everyone is like you, Senpai. No one else is thinking about others.”
In that instant something inside me snapped. My mind went blank, then flooded with unwelcome clarity. Work is not charity; it is survival. People feign cooperation, but in truth think only of themselves. Encouragement, rebuke, gratitude, teamwork—so much of it is no more than a façade required for social life. How foolish I had been to believe in it sincerely. My body was that of a university student, yet my heart still that of a child. Inside me, something collapsed with a terrible crash. I could no longer speak. My chest tightened with pain. Standing became unbearable. Somehow I made it home, only to collapse into the living room, unable to move. The next day I still could not will myself to act. Breathing itself felt impossible. Alarmed, my parents took me to a psychiatrist, where I received my first diagnosis of depression.
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Now, years later, I sit in my apartment after dinner. The room has grown dark. The hum of the fan mixes with the distant rumble of a Hankyu train. I no longer drink scotch until sleep; instead I watch television, listen to jazz, make plans, or think of my distant family. It feels far richer than drowning myself in alcohol. Humans are creatures capable of recognizing past mistakes and choosing to change their future course. I am living proof of that.
I have come to understand: it is more important to act with conviction than to be swept up in words or information. For in most cases, words are little more than decoration.
Sunday, August 24, 2025. I just finished dinner and I’m now in my apartment in Osaka. During the day, the temperature soared above 36°C, but around 7 p.m., as darkness fell, the sound of rain began, soon followed by rumbling thunder. Since I haven’t drawn the curtains, the lightning flashes reflect strongly across my dimly lit room, colored by the warm glow of an incandescent bulb. And yet, instead of fear, I feel a sense of relief—the long-awaited rain has finally come.
It’s been a while since I last posted. Please forgive me. I was overwhelmed with work, and the stress affected my autonomic nervous system, leaving me unwell and in need of rest. What follows are fragments from my personal notes during my absence. I have many such records, and I’d like to use them as a way to gradually resume posting.
Wednesday, July 16, 2025. From early morning, cicadas have been crying. Around Kodera Pond and the library lies a small forest, an ideal habitat for them. Opening the window made their chorus even louder. The morning was sunny, but by afternoon the wind grew stronger, and thunder rolled from time to time, bringing unstable weather. Lately, the climate shifts so rapidly. During such times, my autonomic nervous system easily falters, leaving me feeling unwell.
At work, I had four projects that needed to be handed over to the design department. Yesterday, I held a meeting with them and successfully transferred all four. I also completed the technical documentation. Now, as long as I support the exchange of information between clients and designers, the projects should proceed smoothly. Next week, I’ll return to Tokyo for some administrative errands, so I wanted to clear up the more time-consuming tasks beforehand. It’s a relief to have managed that. This morning will end with an internal meeting in the department.
For lunch, I had spicy chige soup and a glass-noodle salad at the company cafeteria. In summer, with salt easily lost through sweat, I often crave spicy food. I think the reason I enjoy project management is deeply tied to my college days working as a waiter.
My experiences at the Kabukicho branch were bitter at first, but after completing training, I began working as an opening staff member at a new restaurant near Machida Station. The place was in the basement of a building—its ground floor occupied by Kumi-do Bookstore—operating from 9 a.m. to 9:45 p.m. I took customers’ orders, relayed them to the kitchen, prepared coffee and parfaits, fetched cakes from the showcase, delivered dishes, handled complaints, changed water glasses, cleared plates, and supported customers until they left satisfied. A waiter serves as the bridge between the restaurant and the guests. Entering university so naïve about the world, this part-time job became my true education in society. In many ways, it parallels what I do now as a project manager.
For someone like me, raised with lessons of mercy and prayer but lacking social resilience, working as a waiter was the best possible choice. It was a job of service, where good deeds translated directly into customer satisfaction. Extending a hand to those in need—whether by serving food, picking up a dropped fork, or cleaning up a spill—mirrored the same spirit. Above all, the words “Thank you” brought me the deepest joy. They made me feel that I was genuinely useful to others.
Of course, it wasn’t all pleasant. Training was strict. The floor manager, once part of a biker gang, was hot-tempered and sometimes grabbed me by the collar as if to strike me. Yet, as an inexperienced student, I truly had countless things to learn about social life. Though quick to anger, the manager was also deeply human, and he hammered proper manners into me.
Since I had daytime classes, I usually worked shifts from 5 p.m. to closing at 11 p.m. on weekdays, and from 2 p.m. to 11 p.m. on weekends. I walked the floor nonstop, cleaned the restaurant after closing, and scrubbed the kitchen with a deck brush. With little money or time for meals, I often survived on just a cream puff sold at the store. My weight dropped to 58 kg, yet I felt oddly suited to the job. Somewhere deep inside, I believed: if I stay here, I’ll learn something valuable.
Though I was often yelled at by chefs and full-time staff—terrifying at the time—looking back, I feel I must thank them.
The rain and thunder still haven’t stopped. In fact, last Thursday, I came down with COVID and spiked a fever of 38.9°C. I went to the hospital, received antipyretics, and my fever subsided in about two days, but I still cannot return to the office until Tuesday. The news has been reporting a surge in COVID cases lately. I plan to work from home on Monday, but for now, I simply want to rest while listening to the sound of the rain.
Tuesday, July 15th. Because of the rain yesterday, the morning air was cool. The sky was lightly overcast, but the forecast said it would turn into scorching sunshine by afternoon. Last night, I cooked about two cups of rice, so this morning I enjoyed green onion soy sauce rice with miso soup.
It’s been two and a half months since I moved to Osaka on April 26th. With my father’s passing, the days flew by, filled with arranging the funeral, managing inheritance procedures, changing registrations, and making trips back and forth between Osaka and Tokyo. Even so, I wanted to live each moment with care, so I challenged myself to cook for the first time. I also started keeping a household budget. In Osaka, I joined a new tennis school. And as much as possible, I’ve kept a daily journal to record my days.
Every day has been full of new sights, new customs, and new people. But humans are truly creatures of adaptation. The new life that once sparkled with excitement, the shopping street by Tomita Station, the view of Kodera Pond and the library from my apartment—these are all slowly shifting from “something special” to just “everyday scenery.” That first flutter of excitement I felt was precious beyond words.
At lunch, I had a set meal of mapo eggplant at the company cafeteria, dining with some colleagues. When I took a photo of my lunch, they looked at me curiously and asked, “Do you always take pictures like that?” I smiled and replied, “Yeah, I send them to my family or put them in my journal.”
After another hectic day at work, I came home in the evening and cooked dinner—some cabbage soup I’d made in advance, sautéed spinach, ham, and eggs, and a simple bowl of rice with raw egg.
Just recently, the Wimbledon final wrapped up, where Jannik Sinner defeated Carlos Alcaraz to claim his first Wimbledon title. The day before yesterday, I woke up at 3 a.m. just to watch Sinner serving for the championship, completely thrilled. But today, I found myself watching a YouTube video of the Kanto singles tournament for players over 80.
Even at that age, they’re out there playing official singles matches. Of course, they can’t hit powerful shots like the younger players. But I found myself applauding these 80-year-old competitors even more enthusiastically than I did during the Wimbledon final.
It reminded me that I, too, can continue on with my tennis journey. It was a clear reaffirmation that tennis is truly a lifelong sport.
As the extraordinary becomes ordinary, there may be fewer things left for me to write about in my journal. But I still want to keep capturing the small moments of wonder, joy, and surprise I find in everyday life.
Sunday, July 13th. It’s scorching hot just stepping outside during the day. The sun is blinding. I hopped on my bike to go shopping, only to find it had soaked up the sun’s heat under its black cover—so hot it could fry an egg. After riding, I took off my helmet and my head was drenched in sweat.
I recently bought a bigger backpack, so I stuffed my groceries into it and carried them home. Still, once you add drinks and such, it’s heavy—and above all, it’s hot. A motorcycle ride is supposed to let you cut through the air with a pleasant breeze, but on a day like today, the wind is lukewarm and anything but refreshing. Waiting at a traffic light, all I could think was, “Come on, give me a break…”
I squinted under the blazing sun as I walked from the parking lot to my apartment. I must have had quite the grimace on my face.
The moment I got inside, I switched on the air conditioner and turned on the fan. I wiped my face with a towel and let the fan breeze wash over me—a small moment of bliss. I had tennis lessons at 2 PM, so I needed to have lunch early. I turned on the kitchen fan, boiled soba noodles on one burner, and simmered pork, carrots, and cabbage on the other. I added bonito stock to the soba sauce for extra flavor, then poured the hot soup over the noodles in a bowl and topped it with chopped green onions. Maybe I’m the only one who craves hot soba on a day like this.
After lunch, feeling cozy and satisfied, I headed out for my tennis lesson. Just like yesterday, there were only four students today, so I got to hit plenty of balls—great practice. The coach who’s been in charge of my lessons since July is still relatively new to me. We haven’t had that many rallies yet, but he’s really good. I wonder who he is. Once we’re more familiar, I’d like to ask about his background.
It was another tough session, and my body’s pretty beat. If I don’t keep my swing relaxed, the fatigue sticks with me. Coaches do this all day, every day—it’s honestly impressive.
Back home, it was time to prepare dinner. Tonight was spinach and bacon cream pasta. While the pasta boiled, I sautéed the bacon and spinach, added milk and brought it to a gentle boil. A bit of grated cheese and garlic finished off the sauce, then I tossed in the pasta. Adding a little pasta water at the end seems to keep it from getting clumpy. I also made a salad with some lettuce that was on its last legs. It all turned out delicious—a perfect way to wrap up the day. I let out a contented sigh.
Oh right, today’s the Wimbledon final. Sinner vs. Alcaraz. I’d love to watch it, but it doesn’t start until midnight… No way I can pull that off, not with work starting up again tomorrow. Still, I’ve got tomorrow’s tasks pretty much sorted in my head. Today’s lesson was intense and left me a bit stressed, so maybe I’ll try a weekday evening lesson next time.
Canon's Diary 