Sunday.

 

Above is a picture of Assington Workhouse taken from the car as we drove into Sudbury yesterday. I was consulted about the contents of the place, and shown round it, when an old inventory turned up a few years ago. It was built (possibly using an older timber frame) in 1783 at a cost of two hundred and twenty nine pounds, sixteen shillings, and a penny, to house (from memory) just over thirty paupers, and held, according to the inventory more spinning wheels (for the paupers to work at)than beds for them to sleep in. When I looked over it a few years ago it was almost derelict, and had just been bought by a couple who planned to turn it into a spacious, and handsome, home. I think they must have run out of time, money, and enthusiasm (not necessarily in that order) because it is now more or less derelict again.
Both yesterday and today have been lovely sunny days; though last night we had a hard frost and I think another's due tonight. Family service this morning, which means the choir didn't have to robe, although I was asked, at short notice,to read the Gospel. After lunch changed into me scruff and spent the afternoon in the workshop. Ann called me up to supper at about 6.30 p.m. (sausage casserole then stewed apples with cloves, and custard), after which I sat down and finished yesterday's Telegraph prize crossword - a stinker. By the way, if you're reading this, Stig, how did you do at it? I ask because, although I'm fairly sure of the answers, I'm not entirely sure of the reasoning behind one or two of them.Since then I've been doing a bit more pottering in the workshop (and forge). Time for bed now though, so -Goodnight All.