Wednesday 24th December 2025

Christmas Eve.

In a brave mood, we planned to head to the gym for the forth day out of five.

The gym will be closed Christmas day and Boxing Day, so we thought we had better make the best of it, and anyway, we would have two days rest.

I did sleep to half five, and struggled to wake fully drinking coffee before we left for the sports centre at ten past six, arriving at twenty past.

Not many people were there, just the usual faces I suspect.

With the wind in the north east and keen, it cut through us as it blew into our faces as we hurried to the entrance.

I did half an hour. I could have done more, but it seemed enough. So, I left Jools to do ten more minutes, go downstairs and have a coffee as I waited.

When we got home, I made a batch of sausage rolls for breakfast, which due to our appetite, we ate all of.

With huge brews, of course.

Then time for a shower and change before a morning of not doing much, other than boiling the salt beef joint.

Growing up, I hated cold meats, and would have sausages whenever my parents had leftover cold cuts. And then I got it, and salt beef is one of the things I like, especially when made into sandwiches and/or rolls to go with wholegrain mustard and pickles.

Into our biggest pot when three roughly chopped onions, some carrots, assorted spices and the beef. Add a handful of peppercorns and bring to the boil, then simmer for three hours.

The kitchen and house filled with the aroma of the beef, and the kitchen too with the steam, coating the windows and so hiding the bright sunny day from view.

Once cooked until tender, so tender it was almost impossible to carve, I make rolls for us with dill pickles and lashings of mustard and a beer/cider to wash it down with.

In the afternoon, with another brew, the final slice of the first Christmas cake was eaten, before we sat down to watch Funeral in Berlin, the second of the Harry Palmer films, following on from the Ipcress Files.

It was stylish, without being over-complicated. Everyone was double-crossing everyone else, except for Michael Caine, who got the lady and was right all along.

And that was Christmas Eve, really.

A glass of Vin Santo in the evening, listen to some music. And to bed at nine, lest Santa might not call.