He’s put his pictures up on the walls. The place is brighter suddenly, more homely. It has only been eight years with grey, empty walls for company. What is more, every frame is level. Very level.

Whilst I’m pleased with his home making skills, I doubt he actually wrote anything.

You don’t suppose he’s trying to write up a PhD, do you?

Are you using the non-stick pan?

What’s a non-stick pan?

Bless him, The Young Pup is cooking again.

So it was last night when I finally turned in. The bed felt cold, the pillows cold and the duvet didn’t quite feel right. Maybe because you weren’t with me.

Nevertheless this morning came too soon. By then the bed had forgiven me, moulded to my shape and warmed me. I rolled over as the phone rang and in the mist of early morning confusion tried to turn the alarm off. I’m glad I failed, it wasn’t an alarm, it was you.

I was awake, but the actuality of getting out of bed doesn’t fill me with glad tidings of great joy. Once I’m showered, I’m fine, but the few steps between my bed and the shower seem too much for a Saturday morning.

I think it’s about time you got yourself another horse.

Fresh coffee - Check.

Indulgent croissant from the deli over the road - Check.

Let the day begin.

I just snaffled a clementine that was meant to be seedless. I don’t mind the seeds. I think it’s sad that we have tricked a plant into producing fruit that can’t bear fruit. But if it is seedless, it should be seedless, no? Every segment bar one was, but the last segment had six, count them, six seeds in it. One small segment, six unreasonably large seeds. There was hardly any fruit at all in that last silce of citrus.

[update: Methinks they not be seedless. Today's clementine had TWENTY SIX seeds in it.

Maybe twenty seven. I think I swallowed one]

Trouble is, my kitchen will be a bombsite all day with a veritable feast for nine being prepared.

I invited myself to a friend’s kitchen. He lives alone and will likely allow anything for a sneak preview of my Festive Portuguese Custard Tarts, well, wouldn’t you?

The main catch is that my utensils and general baking stuff lies several hundred miles away. TAA isn’t the baking type. Must. Go. Shopping.

I made an early start in an attempt to miss the rush. But I couldn’t find miniature bottles of brandy anywhere. Not being much of a brandy drinker I didn’t really want an entire bottle.
My options were running out as, with the torrential rain, I didn’t want to double back on myself. I thought the shops in the railway station might sell them.
I was wrong.

Only then did it strike me. I bought myself an espresso to take away. A couple of slurps later, I headed to the pub. ‘Tot of brandy please’, I asked the barman. He looked at me oddly. Obviously I am not his usual brandy customer at eleven o’clock in the morning.

Bless him, he tried to hide it well ‘Single or double? he asked.

I sighed heavily, laying it on a little thick. ‘Best make it a double’ I said.

I went to sit down out of his sight before pouring the contents of the glass into my paper espresso cup.

On my way out, and with a self satisfied nod of acknowledgement to the barman, I placed my empty glass on the bar.

For stop after stop they continued their gaze into the middle distance. Then something happened. Simultaneously they broke their forward gaze. I can only guess that some input to their ears prompted this change of behaviour. They turned to look at each other and at exactly the same moment, they smiled. A coy smile that meant everything to them, but nothing to the world around them.

They fell back to their well rehearsed positions. The next stop was mine.