Every day is like Sunday.
Every day is cloudy and grey.
And so it was, that on the seventh day, the clouds were indeed low and grey and the temperature barely climbed above freezing.
I lay in to quarter to eight: nearly dinner time, and when I went downstairs, found the house empty as Jools had gone swimming.
I made a coffee and prepared Jools's so when she came home she'd not have to wait long.
We listened to the radio until eleven, then went out to visit Jen, but she was out. So we checked out the new burger place out on London Road then came back home.
Jools cooked some stuff for her lunches this week, and after we had backed cheese with warmed though bread left over from our trip back from Italy. Defrosted and warmed in the oven it was fine.
Dipped in runny cheese and washed down with wine.
Then there was football: where the Prem is upside down. Spurs lost 3-2 at Everton, although Spurs were worse than the scoreline suggests.
At the same time Man Utd lost 3-1 at home to pluck Bournemouth, and again the score could have been worse at the Stadium of Revised Expectations.
And then Citeh played at Ipswich, and were like a tiger playing with a baby gazelle, running in six goals in just over an hour before substitutions killed the momentum.
I made mince pies for supper, while it got dark outside.
The weekend was over once again.
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