last night, jezza called round to pick up his father’s thigh length waders. Just don’t ask, alright? We’ll come to that later, although I will stress that they were not used for some peculiar perversion. Well, hardly at all. But I digress.

we have become more and more hermit-like, so he dragged us up to the local pub for a pint and a bite to eat. Of course, the Bird in Hand has stopped serving food, because they’re leaving on Monday. How many landlords has that place been through?

so we went down to The Angel, and ate indifferent lasagne. And I had one GT, and one glass of not very good Merlot, and felt half pissed. And have discovered that I don’t sleep very well in that state. Ho hum …