Coningsby International Airshow

Well, it's seemed that way.

My impromptu day out on Thursday, replacing the London trip turned out quite successful. The whole point was to catch a bit of last minute action from the resident 6 Squadron, RAF who're the last in the air farce to operate the Jaguar ground attack plane, who've been given one months notice to shut down; a bit of shabby treatment considering the jet's been in front line service for 33 years, and still effective; and they've some of the best flying and spirit we've got left.

What was going to be just a bit of hit and miss jet watching turned into three days in the sun, picking up an injury* running for the runway whilst carrying a big bag full of lenses and optics on one shoulder. The air ingredient turned out to include two displays from the only Lancaster bomber flying in Europe, just back from it's major service and looking lovely and clean; four Spitfires and an unexpected formation display from three brand new Eurofighters; as well as the 13 aircraft formation display from the retiring Jaguars. Spotters around the place.... well, I've been to airshows with less people at them. The camera's chewed it's way through more pixels than is good for it, and is in need of fettling now thanks to the dry conditions, strong wind and dust getting into places it's best not to mention. Anyway, my pictures are here, here, here and here.

*Think your arse is just for sitting on? Wait until you pull muscles all the way down one side of it and then you'll appreciate how important it actually is for walking !

I got a little reflective at times, on how some of those jets that are retiring I can actually remember seeing for the first time in 1985, and yes, that only seems like a long while ago now I actually think about it. There's been a lot go on since, and my attitudes to life couldn't be more different to what they were then; the aviation obsession was total, seemed fair enough and natural and it's slipped by the wayside since. Hell, I'm not about to psychoanalysise myself here. Interesting as it is, I've not got the time, there's stuff to do....

Do something that scares you

What was it? Do something that scares you at least once a week? Or was it a month or a year? I can't remember. Anyway. Sticking a wide angle lens on the camera and taking a picture of these two as they landed seemed a great idea at the time. And I suppose it was. And it's a good piccie. Hell, I'm not the first to do it. More like the 10,000th. But hell, those things are big, fast, heavy, sharp, suck in air like mad things and full of lots of really flammable stuff. Bear in mind, that's a wide angle lens. It curves with angles and makes things look great, but also FURTHER AWAY than they really are. Suffice to say, they're too low, I'm too tall and those little fences aren't much more than knee height.

If I'd have ducked any lower, I'd have been digging holes with my teeth, and I'm not in a hurry to repeat this one thanks!

Convivial

Well, here's an idea for something different to perk the day up; pub lunch before work. A very nicely kept pint of Theakstons Old Peculier - breweries now back in the hands of the family so I can drink that tasty stuff with a clear conscience. Went to the Station Hotel which I was recommended years ago, and finally have gotten around to trying. Nice, unpretentious, excellently kept beer. Arrived at work more chilled out than usual, but then I did get there with plenty time to spare as I was in charge for my sins and like a nice buffer of time to get my head around what's going on in the world. Of course, nothing lasts, including chilled moods. Quite a stressy day, felt pressured by bosses not present; a feeling of "OK, lets look at this task from the point of view of how many ways they can kick my arse for it when it's over". Not an especially nice day from a professional point of view, and it didn't end especially well; not feeling especially loved there at the moment, nor do I feel people are being especially transparent. Can't be bothered with places where you're constantly twitching in between the shoulder blades, doesn't do morale a lot of good and frankly, my works hasn't got any. Right here, right now those books on changing careers I was given a few years ago are looking quite attractive again.

A pint in the Wheatsheaf on the way home as well, another recommendation. Not such a good one this time. No Blacksheep as I'd been promised. There's nothing acutally WRONG with the pub, other than the beer's a bit exy... it's nice enough. But it's all CREATED. Artificial. It's a plastic pub. A bit sterile. Don't think it's going to regularly feature in my life. At that end of town, the Tap and Spile's not got a lot to worry about*.

*Yes, I know that's a contradiction in terms and a Tap and Spile is equally created, but it seems to have been better done, know what I mean?

Supposed to be in London today, a friend's giving a presentation. You'll have noticed it's nine and I'm still up here. Bottom line is, money's short and I don't trust the car. The train company quoted me ninety six pounds for the cheapest day return they could do; that's just not going to happen at this end of the pay month. The car's got to make Scotland next month, and it's already going to have to be fettled heavilly before it can make it that far; two journeys like that I think is pushing the risk a bit far. Never liked unreliable cars; it was like this in the terminal days of the Mini and that just wasn't a lot of fun... still isn't. So as it's my day off, I'm going to stroll out with the camera somewhere and do something entertaining.

And speaking of days off, looks like my union want me to strike again. You'll remember I was a disgusting blacklegging scab last time this happened; my team had minimal union membership, and of that team I was the only considering action that I hadn't voted for. This time I'm not so sure. Must take readings from my senior colleagues. I know it's a days pay lost, but the prospect of a day in the pub is really very very attractive....

Morals

Well, still one or two functioning, it seems. A small barney'ette at the fun factory; it would appear I'm getting increasingly unhappy with some of our wider practises; and certainly have major issues at being bollocked for doing what my training leads me to believe is correct and reasonable, where as what the boss wants me to do is of dubious legal and moral standing to say the least; while at the same time he's doing stuff that's simply technically incorrect and even I can rip to pieces in seconds, let alone a competent barrister. The advice of "just go with what he says, he's boss"; of course although correct, doesn't fit well with me. For the first time in yonks, I get the very strong impression that I'll not collect my pension from this outfit; at some time in the future I'll quit on a principal, and it'll probably be dramatic.

On a happier note, but not for the local wildlife; I see that His Cattyness isn't letting his birthday celebrations get him down... woke to be presented with not one, but two corpses on the carpet this morning. I don't know where he finds 'em. He's got a big jingly bell on his collar as everyone recommends. Of course, what they forget is that cats aren't daft and they soon learn what the folks in the submarine service would call "silent running". Maybe I should replace it with a foghorn. I suspect he'd still manage it.

So goodbye then....

....Big bad boozing bolshevik bear, Boris. There goes one of the colourful politico's of the age. Remembered for his impromtu conducting an orchestra in Berlin, sleeping through a visit to Ireland with the Irish PM waiting at the aeroplane steps because he's "Indisposed" (read "pissed"), and publicly dancing like a big pissed Russian on just about any occaision where there's a bottle of vodka. Oh, and he was the first democratically elected russian president too. Forgot about that. Funeral should be interesting. No worries about him going off while he lies in state, he should be perfectly preserved for decades. I'd not cremate him though, comrades. The resulting fireball would do for the crematorium and anything for about half a mile either side. Saves on the fireworks for the party afterwards though. Maybe folks should bring marshmallows and sharp sticks. What a guy.

Oh and happy birthday to the Hammer of the Mice, my cat Gizmo. Three today and on good sociable form for a change. One tin of human consumption tuna for his lunch seems to have improved his mood; for that stuff he'll sell his soul, if the devil'd have anything to do with him!

How is it Monday already?

Not a bad weekend off as weekends off go.

Inroads made in the housework, socialising done with friends in Lincoln (the Victoria public house, all I can say is YUM, it's fantastic) and locally too; and drank half the annual wine production of Slovenia. I've actually put a very serious dent in the wine stocks here this month, going to have to do a deal at Majestic next month, either that or trust my tastebuds to the bargain bin at Lidl which I really don't think is going to happen, do you?

Had a cooking frenzy yesterday, an enormous batch of pasta and chilli, dinner for the next few days. I don't know what came over me. Must be the same thing that made me fettle the bike and get it running; money's short at the moment but I feel motivated to get it retaxed and insured before the end of the week, I badly want to get back on the roads in something fun that's not Christine.

Oh, and St George. I notice that unlike every other minor abberation to the calendar, google.co.uk can't be arsed to put up a special title header for our patron saint. Bastards. Any minority you like, so long as it's not the English. Grrrr. I shall be popping into O'Neils later with a red and while flag worn like a cloak, a red and white top hat and demanding a pint of warm cloudy bitter. Anybody like to have a stab at my chances of getting out alive?

Terminus Tweet

Ah, the early morning dawn chorus of meows that indicates that another of this parish's Sparrow population has ended it's short journey from egg to wheelybin grave in the jaws of the pet of this household. How DO they meow so loudly with their mouths full?

Saturday's here; the week in the fun factory is complete, and it ended less eventfully than the way it started, which frankly I'm quite happy about. The business of Friday was tackled smartly and efficiently, leading to everyone being away on time and in my case, ending up in quite a scuzzy pub that didn't sell real ale with some really very loud people. Hey ho. Fortunately, today plans for today involve being in a pub that DOES sell real ale, after a few basic level domestic chores have been completed.

What Chores?

Pint of Black Sheep please. Thanks.

Auditions for a new joke for that situation will be held shortly.

Oh sambucca, leave me alone!

Oh thou naughtest of drinks, you've taken my legs away again! A night on the turps in Cod Town, enormous quantities of bitter and wine consumed, although I'd have to say, not in the same glass; followed by the Harrogate Liver Tenderiser in copius shots. Remember boys and girls, midweek drinking is good for you. Ahem. Honest guv. Today I feel excellent, raring to go, not in the least bit queasy. And I may be fibbing a bit too.

So, where does the week leave me? Well, from the excitment on Monday, we've got a congratulatory message from one of our little tin gods. VSenior bloke was visiting when the job went down, came to visit, and this LTG has sent us a message saying that "I had dinner with ***** ******* tonight and he's still buzzing". Sycophantic bastard. "I had dinner with..."? They really live in a different planet, Planet Boss, are we supposed to be impressed? This muppet crunched himself doing watersports a while ago and spent some time being held together by screws, and machines that go "beep beep", and the sychophants in the upper part of the chain sent us all regular briefings on his condition and "we're all pulling for you, blah blah blah"... lets get this straight, we wouldn't get the same information if a jobbing ground level officer wrecked himself doing something frivilous, understand THIS boss people. Not that we wish anybody any harm, but... We. Don't. Care.

Heh, did you know I can't STAND sycophants.

So, eight hours after leaving the office on Monday, I was back again. My boss had already been in for an hour, running another job... this is a man who had a stroke a few months ago and is supposed to be taking it easy. A few of us had been detatched to another team in another town for a day, so it was an hour's drive for the briefing, and then mooching around a large South Yorkshire town doing bad things. Thus I found myself in a market square in the middle of town, completely public, facing down three of a guy's five minders (actually the phrase "Heavies" would be more apt), while our lead bloke very quickly went in and did what had to be done with their mate. Hmmmmm. Could have done without that. Now, if you're a reader that actually knows me, you'll know that the Shadey's a big lad, built for war, but that's about as far as it goes... I'm actually more your teddy bear type. I don't like confrontation, especially not with crim's, even less when I'm wearing no armour or belt kit, so as to be inconspicous. Not the happiest of campers was I. I'm not over fond of the feeling of my arse being stuck out in the breeze and it felt just a bit drafty back there, folks. But it seemed to work, they stayed backed off long enough for us to do what we had to do and beat a hasty retreat before we got our heads kicked in. A few more jobs were done, rather more in a less "in harms way" category than the first, and we headed back to the coast to spend yesterday doing all the paperwork that should have been done on Monday, but wasn't because people not unreasonably needed to sod off home after fourteen hours straight.

A lovely afternoon yesterday, got a thing or two done, but not enough, then out for bevvies with one of my slowly growing collection of local pals, and that's where I came in I believe.....

Four little words

Some people live their lives just aching for those three little words. Me, I live my life in dread of four.

"Mike, can you extend?"

Which means you can forget the nice restful plans you had for after work, feet up in front of the telly, it's hit the fan, there's no crew coming on to relieve you and you'll be here until the work's done. Voluntary of course, and what's more we always do. Yesterday for instance, fourteen hours after wandering in, I'm still working hard. And eight hours after getting home, I'm due back at the coalface. Didn't have breakfast yesterday, so subsisted on a few quarter sandwiches donated to the troops from buffet procured for a high level boss's vist, until my boss sent out for pie and chips halfway through the job. This carbohydrate rush kept me going, and indeed fuelled me to what you might call an insane strength and aerobic workout in the dirtiest shed on the dock, so why my lungs didn't pack in is confusing to say the least. But oh my, today I'm sore. Everything aches.

So there's not much time to tell you about Sunday, which was a nice relaxing day; drove over to the middle part of the country and spent the day in the park with a mate, just dossing in the sun watching the world go by. How often do I get to do that? Not often, and I like it. Of course, there's plenty of opportunity for dossing in the rain, but it's just not the same....

Night on the town

Well, they've been known to work better.

Five minutes before the taxi arrived, I nicked the side of my nose shaving; my god - for a tiny cut, that bastard sure can bleed. An hour and a half later I was still holding bloody tissues to the side of my face. Very welcoming I'm sure. Looked as if the Number Two bar had experienced a drunken tosser event minutes before I arrived, the barman was jittery and the atmosphere a little loaded. As it happened, the people I was meant to be meeting up with didn't show up, so I did a quick wander around the secondary meetup, and then the tertiary. Unknown to me, they'd decided to go somewhere else entirely and didn't have my mobile number. Nice one. Do I smell? Am I really that bad company?

Well, made the mistake of having a drink at the last spot I tried, O'Neill's, the worst kind of plastic paddy bar. It's not even a pub, it's just a conduit for relieving punters of their money at the highest possible rates for the least possible comfort, service and quality. Guinness Extra cold? No thanks, I'll have normal. The only reason to chill a drink is so that you can't actually taste what's in it. Call me old fashioned, but I'd rather taste what I've paid for. Not as if there's any need to chill a drink for refreshment purposes on the East coast of England. Mint Julip's on the veranda served to you by a servile coloured man, on windblown Skeggy seafront in a typical summer force 8, anyone? Didn't think so. The people inside the bar were pissed, rank and depressing. I hated it. Got accosted by a dreadful drunken coddette at one point...

"SMIIIIIIIIIIIIILE!!!!! Ya' not gonna be here forever!!!!!!!!!".

"Indeed I won't. I intend to leave at the end of what they jokingly call my pint and not return"

It's difficult to find words to express how much I loathe this bar and resent the half hour of my life, which I won't get back that it's taken. If you're in a group it's expensive, noisy, unhygenic and not very good. If you're running solo as I was, then it's purgatory. Mind you, txt messages received would appear to indicate that FLoH whom I've not heard from for a while was enjoying her Southern pub experience on the outskirts of London just as much as I was up north. That sort of place I also know only too well, and wouldn't touch with a fifteen foot shitty stick, in case the scumbags within steal it. Oh to have spent the day and night in a more civilised place.

On an unrelated note, it would appear that Amba, my boy Gizmo's half brother who resides down south with my mother is finally to lose his gonads. The old's have displayed similar reluctance to have their boy done as I did with mine, except that mine was more male empathy (how would I like compulsory knacker knackering just as I'm working out what they're for), where as they're more motivated by environmental tree hugging'ness, and a reluctance to interfere with his natural development. Until he started seriously kicking the crap out of a smaller tomcat that's made the mistake of wandering into the street, and spraying on everything that moves, and also that doesn't move including the neighbours vent to their ventilation system, stinking out the whole house. I finally agreed to have Giz done a year or so back after his trips out became extended, and the signs of serious Tom'ness were sighted approaching in the distance; plus some serious gentle pressure from the Minister for Good Sense, FLoH , resulted in a quick trip to the vets and him having a little bit of personality adjustment done. Resulted in a much nicer cat. As much as I hate to say I told you so, muvver... I did, repeatedly !

Here in my car I feel safest of all. Until the sump falls out.

Yep, was enjoying the luxury of a Blokebrek a little while back; this is for the unitiated, everything the medico's say is bad for you; double eggs with steak, sausages, bacon, beans. Hmmm, manfeast. Not as if I have it often. Washed down with black coffee and Top Gear repeats, then came Clarkson on Cars. Yay! A special on the British Motor Industry, who actually killed it.

A bit of a freaky show actually. Very much a return to youth, especially when they ran down the list of dead British manufacturer's. The Wolseley. Childhood memories of two of those lumps sitting permanently parked under the telegraph pole, on the green, the other side of the road from my single glazed bedroom window, upon which the man next door but two, Mr Kennedy would always work on but somehow never actually drive. The Austin Allegro, my grandad had one.... what, do you mean that vomit coloured abortion was actually *deliberately* styled that way to be outstanding? The Ital.... I never knew it was supposed to be STYLISH, I thought it was designed as crap, a Marina with bells on! Amusing that the Italian styling house responsible has actually scoured it from the company history book. A shame they missed out some of the other motorised sins of the time that I remember like the Vauxhall Viva, my uncle's rusty green horrid rustbucket, slightly less horrible than the horrid white and rust thing it replaced and immortalised by the Macc Lads as their pulling car (rusty Vauxhall Viva wi' viynl roof, a'reeeeet!); and the Maxi (oh why, why, WHY).

Lets face it, the cars of the era were horrible, and when you look at the insane way the industry worked, or rather didn't, is it a suprise? Hmmm, funky contemporary plastic trim, yum. But I find myself strangely nostalgic for them or at least the times they represent. They were proper cars. If they didn't work, which they normally didn't you hit them with a hammer until they did. The sun still set over the Gipping Valley everynight watched by me from my room; black kids had afro's, jeans, sweatshirts and smiles, not hoodies, menace and guns; you didn't suspect the imperfectly groomed newsreader of actually being an Auton, a professional nothing straight out of journalist school and straight into my brain; at least you understood your enemy and you still thought the country might be going somewhere, not under... never mind, can't turn the clock back. And yeah, I'm nostalgising (is that a word? It is now) an era where I was skint, we were skint, we were all skint, but you know what, I was happier. I'll still drool over a restored Capri ,Cortina or Triumph Spitfire, even though they're dreadful. They smell different. They smell like cars, damnit. Not the things you get these days. Not sure what they smell of, but it's not MY youth. On with the rose tinted specs, laddo.

And if my life wasn't the mad long distance, mile eating thing it has become, I'd buy another (original) Mini tomorrow. A'reeeet?

Kudos

Positive kudos to HairymanP yesterday who for his birthday didn't bring in the usual cream cakes and duffnuts, but rather a gigantic pile of pork pies, cheese slices and ham slices with a flapjack here and there. PiepiepiepiePIE !!! Good one ! And thanks to him I now know where there's a pub that's selling good Sam Smiths for £1.27 a pint within bus distance. Yay!

Not so positive kudos for our teams Meldrew (yup, grumpier than me) who wandered down to a team of very hungry unbreakfasted officers at stupid o'clock this morning and talked long and boring about the bad bacon sandwich he'd had at Leicester Services. Had to be told VERY loudly to shut up, before I killed him and grilled his shoulders over a blazing lorry driver for brunch. "Man, will you STOP talking about bacon sandwiches unless you want to go and buy them for us!!!!". Grrrr. A funny week, settling into the new team and I have to say I greatly prefer it to my old - nothing personal, old team guys. More my kind of people, older officers, and no clique. God, I hate cliques. The downside was, working with Fruit this week; a nice but funny lass and unfortunately able to flip my switch quicker than anyone else; I have a hair-trigger reaction to when I believe people are patronising me; and she does it without trying. The sad thing is, I know she's actually not and she doesn't mean to offend; in fact she'd be hurt if she knew she was doing it. Just the way she comes over. So I keep a grip on the old temper, and we'll sort it out eventually. These rough corners normally get rubbed off. I'm on great terms nowadays with Clog - but there were days when she first started that I couldn't bring myself to even talk to her for fear of biting her head off. But back to this week, hell, I don't want to be radical but it almost seems I'm ENJOYING work. That's just mad. That doesn't happen. And I seem to be getting back into better condition again, even without the gym; the old tone seems to be returning to the shoulders and arms again. Seem to be bouncing more at work. Getting a bit of backpain from carrying the beltpack all the time, but I'm not sure it's back rather than muscular working ache. Not a bad thing maybe. And I've actually been paid compliments on my build again. That's nice.

Pretty convinced though that the chest business is work environment related. One of the lasses I know who's off on a travelling team came back this week and was instantly complaining about bad throat, tight chest... as were half her team. And still the quack prods and pokes at my heart, coz the Fat Nazi's have got his ear and his budget. "Nobody's naturally big"... no mate? Measured my shoulders? Is THAT fat? Bottom line is, I'm built for stopping trucks, without a car. Go and straighten your bloody perm out.

Great things about living on your own without a doris to call your own number 1,015. Garlic sausages can be eaten at any time of the day or night without complaint. Been shopping at Lidl, I've not gone pikey folks, but I'm told they have some different stuff in there and indeed they do. Local branch don't do the Appelkorn clone I was after, so I'm going to check out the other German budget shops, but there's some different stuff in there alright. So my fridge is now groaning under the weight of stinky meat, more so even than my pants drawer, and I've bought a very dodgy bottle of Plum schnappes. Probably revolting lol.

Oh, and finally for this moment... it's nice to be missed. Got a text from a friend in the west of the country wanting to know if I was alive and alright 'coz I hadn't been posting on here for a good while. Hello, hello where ever you are, certain reader. Not dead, just busy. Look after yourself, be safe, get in touch.

TTFN all !

Here's a small thought

A Scotsman on a Bank of England note. Has the world gone mad? I'm sure Adam Smith's a very worthy bloke. But they're missing the point, he's not bloody English. Are we that desparate to be inclusive? Is it part of the new drive to apologise for everything unsavory that we did to become great? What's next? Desmond Tutu on the tenner? I look forward to the punchups when we put a picture of King Edward I on the Scottish fiver. I ask you, a PW on a English banknote... whatever next...

Oh, and just found a note in my pocket from one of my nights out... "Absinthe makes the heart grow stopped"

Rumours

...of the demise of Shadey Mike are grossly exxagerated and hey, I'm back.

Been busy doing real life socialising with real life people, doing bits and pieces that need doing, and absolutely failing to have a quality Bank Holiday Monday.

Half my team were in work and I had a gut feeling that that'd be where I aught to be too. Quite right too. Everything I attempted failed... my oppo' pulled out of the trip to the Raptor Centre in Thirsk; the morning dragged until I'd left it too late to make the last flying display of the afternoon; left it too late to go to the Railway Museum in York and missed last admission to the Lancaster Bomber's taxi run at East Kirkby by five minutes. Eventually removed myself into town to have a quick beer at the Number 2 bar, home via the Pizza shop which was full of teenagers fresh and wet from the Foam Party in town... now long ago, I went to one of these... I'm not proud; but it was in Majorca which at least has the climate for walking around soaked. Cleethorpes does not. Never mind, it's only the young, youth is wasted on them. Pizza kept me up with gutrot for a good several hours after I hit the hay; all in all I'd rather have been in work.

And I've just almost crapped myself as a spider the size of Frank Bruno's fist walked across my leg as I typed this. Where's Giz when there's something to be killed? Nowhere near lol !!!

Double ton

Well, it's the 200th entry in this opus. Are we having fun yet? We've laughed, we've cried, I've got pissed a lot. Actually, think I've gotten the better part of that deal, I drink the beer, you have to read THIS garbage! I could bang on about the first day on my new team at work (not bad, let's see how it goes); or how the DVLA are a bunch of incompetent, grasping, robbing bastards (they are). Instead, have some graphic representation of my weekend on the ale with something scarey at the end.

Life could be worse

Courtesy of someone else's blog who reads here.....

No matter how much your job sucks, your car's spilt it's guts all over your drive, your cat's thrown up in the clean laundry and your kids are being little bastards.... worry not, it's not so bad. You could always be THESE guys, just up the road....

Ah well, a beery one

Ah well, fun fails... just tried to load into this page the "personal travel map" that the good lady Biro Jules had in her blog recently, but for some reason Blogger doesn't like it's code. Rest assured folks, that this correspondent has visited 4% of the countries of the world, quite a well travelled little turk I am. Not that I'm a Turk. I don't even much like kebabs. Etc.

Just having a quick blog before the business of the day starts. What can you say about last weekend apart from the fact that I spent most of it insensible and the rest with a raging hangover. Ah, jolly times, just like the old days. Friday, I was completely disorientated having had a double shift on Thursday and completey boggling my body in the process. Didn't hit the seafront pubs 'til nearly eleven, ran into one of my few Cod Central social contacts and proceeded to have some bevvies, then into a taxi home and failed to sleep until about five am. Hey ho. It's that disorientation thing again, folks. How domesticated am I? After making a late night meaty snack edible, courtesy of Mr George Foreman-Grill, I remember to clean it even though drunk. The grill, that is; not the snack. I'll make somebody a wonderful wife one day.

The following day, the excellent Mr TB trundled over to this buzzing social centre that is the Lincolnshire coast, dumped his stuff at Fortress Shadey, and we quickly away'd into town to find a couple of cheap steak dinners and excellent beer in the Yarborough Hotel. Refreshed, I fulfilled a personal ambition, albeit a sad and geeky one, of travelling by train for ale; hopped on the train to Cleethopes - suprisingly half the cost of a taxi. Beer was had in the Number 2 Bar, Willies Wine Bar (both acclaimed good beer guide pubs) and we finished up for shorts in Smugglers, always a nice spot to finish. Home via the Pizza shop (yay, kebabs sucessfully avoided) and drunken DVD watching before giving myself over to the important business of feeling quite awful on Sunday.

And so we're here. It's Monday, I'm working later, I'm trying to get a handle on the day, and can't quite. I think the old mind's working overtime behind the scenes, which means peculiar dreams and broken sleep and sure enough....