"for the happy, the sad, I don't want to be, another page in your diary"

Saturday 29 September 2018


We start the week by getting plastered. I just hope the chap doing it is better at getting plaster on the walls than he is getting his van on our drive. At least he tells me he is happy with L's stripping as he gets down to work. We leave Daughter plasterer sitting or rather trying to prevent the dogs getting plastered.

Monday night’s dog training is declared a puppy session and two people we haven’t seen for ages promptly turn up with their new dogs. So it’s puppy mayhem and the Lad thinks he’s in heaven e.g. I can’t get him to concentrate on anything.

On Tuesday Derby are away at Manchester United in the League Cup. I pay for a day’s worth of Sky Sports (oh the shame), so that I can watch. I advise L that she may wish to be out for the duration but I think even she is looking through her fingers as Derby win on penalties.

Wednesday it’s dogging and a pint with L in the Nags Head after she’s visited her parents.

I manage to bike Wednesday and Thursday but tennis is off as my opponent is away. So L is the only one on court this week. While watching her session, I can see why we struggle to get an indoor court on a evening. Of the eight courts, three are taken up by lessons and a fourth with a cardio tennis class.

L plays again at 4pm on Friday. Does even Serena train this often? On Friday we also do our 6am run.

Then in the evening we’re off out on the razz. It’s one of our neighbours 75th birthday party at the Beechdale pub. Not a place we’d normally frequent but it’s nice to live life on the edge occasionally.

L picks him up a Party 7 as a birthday present or at least the modern equivalent. In this case, Adnams Ghost Ship. We should have took it with us as at the party there’s a buffet but no beer. Amazingly, despite advertising three ales, the pub has run out of cask beer on a Friday night. I resort to bottles and we watch our neighbour drinking lager all night but he says he’ll cope with his Party 7.

I then spend Saturday morning arguing with my optician about the un-recyclability of his contact lenses solutions. He supplies us at least 100% more than we need, in bottles that cannot be emptied without stabbing with a large knife and are made of plastic that cannot be recycled. He is as immovable as am I.

(Saturday 29th September)

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