Sunday 25th September 2016

Good morning.

Or good afternoon, or evening.

It is three months to Christmas, which, isn't long. But the weather is still warm, warm enough to believe it is still summer, even if it is dark before half seven now. The year gets older, eben if it doesn't seem like it, well, until evening comes and we can sit out on the patio, marveling at the majesty of creation in the heavens above.

But I am getting ahead of myself, because before that, we must lie in med like slugabeds until very near seven in the morning. I was in bed so late, Scully came back up and sat on my legs, meowing loudly, demanding breafast. Then, when I try to get out of bed, she refuses to move.

Situation normal.

We get up, make coffee and feed the cats. I settle down to watch the football, which is nice, especially with the girds busy on the feeders outside the window. Man Utd beat Leicester, Arse beat Chelsea, Liverpool thrash Hull. And so on.

I make bacon butties for breakfast and watch the rest of the football, by then the sun was abroad, and it was about time I did some stuff. But before going out, there was a second Christmas cake to make; mixing the sugar and butter, pouring in the eggs, folding in the flour and fruit. Twenty minutes and it was in the oven, slowly cooking.

Which meant I could go into Folkestone for a hair cut.

I could have waited a week, but then who knows what I would rather be doing next weekend? So I drive into Dover, up Military Hill and onto the A20 to Folkestone, finding the only parking space free near the barbers. Folkestone is already busy, as people are about, looking for breakfast or even eating it.

The chair is free in the barbers, so I go in, and my graying hair is shorn, making me feel cooler. I look in the record shop for something inspiring; but they did not have the first Public Service Broadcasting record, and the new Yello record dies not come out until next Friday. I save my pennies and walk out empty handed.

Back to the car and out of town, up to Capel and along old Folkestone Road into Dover, where I am stuck behind a learner driver and a line of cars. It would have been quicker to tackle the roadworks along Townwall Street. Up Castle Street and then past the National Trust place, round the hairpins bends and along the clifftop road back home.



The afternoon passes quietly. Jools is working in the garden, and i prepare the steak for dinner and keep an eye on the cake still baking. It smelled glorious. West Ham are on the radio, playing badly to be spanked by Southampton. Still, gotta laugh.

I cook dinner, and it is everything the dinner at the Smugglers on Monday wasn't. I know how to cook a decent steak and I can't deny. I sample a glass or three of one of the new wines I brought back from Belgium last month, and I can confirm it passes muster.

A couple of hours later, my case is packed, and I am ready for a week away. Jools is watching The Man Who Would be King, and it is heading towards its sad finale.

I'll see you all on Friday.