Friday 8th November 2019

Education.

Most of us have had some, some a lot. And here I am, 54 years old, and on two more training courses. Or between them.

What the course does is compress five days work into three, meaning long days in the classroom and then homework.

And on top of that, five to six hours hard driving, in heavy rain either end. It was hard.

And fnally, an early morning, meaning less sleep on Wednesday.

This meant that by Friday morning, I was really very tired indeed. I did hear Jools get up for work, but I went back to sleep, waking up once Scully had been fed and came back to bed hoping for someone to lean against during her all day snooze.

I had a case to unpack, a new case to pack for next week, washing to sort out and do. And downstairs, a pile of Mum's mail to sort through, and places to call.

The morning passed very quickly.

Somehow.

In the afternoon, I made a Christmas cake. As you do. I use a third of a bottle of what I thought was Madeira but was port, but feed the top and bottom of the cake once baked with the same amount of Madeira. There is something about the smell of allspice when it is cooking, it smells like Christmas.

I am left with more than a sink full of washing up, which I do tackle.

There is time

The cake would be done by half five, taking for and a half hours on gas mark one.

Jools comes home, we have a coffee, and we can relax, as it is now the weekend, and a fill two and a half day weekend at that.

Outside, darkness falls, the moon is nearly full again; how did that happen?

I cook chorizo hash for dinner, the first time since before we went on our holibobs. There is something spicy and reassuring about it. And it goes very well with red wine.

The evening is spent with me watching football, after calling (for the first time) a long time friend. That hour flew by. So good to put a voice to the name and face, you know who you are. By the time the call finished, Norwich were already 1-0.

I try to watch, but it is paiful. What was so easy and carefree last season, is staid and forced this. They concede a second in the second half, and no matter how much they huffed and puffed, as my Dad would have said, they wouldn't have scored as long as they had a hole in their arse.

He was a poet, of course.

City lose 2-0, and storm clouds are gathering.