Sunday 1st February 2015

Saturday.

Only full day off of the week.

I am awoken by the smell of fresh coffee. Hmmm, how sweet it smells. And welcome too. Outside it is not quite dark, dawn is howing, and there are few clouds in the sky. I take the coffee and go into the bathroom to look at the changing light, but not before picking up my camera too.

Just after half seven, yellow light shows behind the houses on the brow on the hill on the opposite side of the dip, airlines above are illuminated making them seem like comets blazing their tails. And then, between the houses, the sun rises, already bright enough to hurt my eyes.



Breakfast.

And then, well, strap on our walking boots, go stomping before Jools has to go for a beading class, and I will star with my good friend, Mr Radio, and all the day's sports news. I say sports, even Andy Murray's progress to the final of the Australian Open musters a moment of interest in my brain. It may also be Superbowl weekend, but I have not watched that for some four years now, and in truth I have not missed the NFL at all. A bit like live football, I have gotten used to the radio, and doing other stuff at the same time.



We go for a short walk, just about an hour, along the path at the end of the street, to the pig's copse, we look down the track to the dip, already the frost is melting and the mud softening. We decide not to go too far, so turn round and wander back, horses in the fields look at us hopefully that we might be bringing them hay or some carrots.

Back home we have another coffee, Jools collects her beading stuff and leaves me alone with Danny Baker on the radio. I make some dough for rolls to go with the soup that Jools had made on Thursday The day passes into afternoon, somewhere players march out onto the pitch, kick off, and the radio burbles away in the background. That finishes, Jools comes home, all over the country more matches are about to begin, and I settle down to follow City on Twitter. It is a little old school, like when we used to follow the scores on Teletext. City huff and puff, but fail to impress, and so the score at Brum ends 0-0.

Outside night has fallen, we get hungry so warm the soup, the rolls are down, so once buttered, all is ready for dinner.

We end the day, watching The Mummy Returns, which is awful and joyless as I had been lead to believe. We sit there, slack jawed, like watching a car wreck, unable to drag our eyes away from the awfulness. That is two hours of our lives we won't get back.

Saturday ends, but with the promise of snow for the morning, and I have to travel to Denmark. Again. Oh well.