Good Morning (Not)

On the bus today. No gossip to report but I'm fascinated by the t-shirt that this heavy metal chap, he’s a regular arrower, is wearing. It was a t-shirt from some festival in America. Some of the band names were amazing, it's a shame I can't remember them all. I'm intrigued by the Alabama Motherfuckers, they sound a nice bunch of boys.

Another witty email from my good lady entitled 'Good morning (Not)' starts the day. She really should have her own blog.

She and Doggo got attacked by their favourite deer that hovers around the corner of the golf course. A female obviously, the 'bloody thug' as L calls her. She's been having a go at them all summer. Doggo, bless him, did his best to protect her. I think.

The park is closed every morning next week, which means it's the annual deer shoot again., when they cull the deer down to more reasonable numbers. L's looking forward to it. She says she's going in tomorrow with a can of red spray paint and is going to paint a red cross on it's arse in the hope that it will be the first target. Although you wouldn't trust the council to be able to hit anything, least of all a target. They're very good at missing even the governments poxy ones.

L goes out at lunch and gets us theatre tickets for War & Peace, which is so long, like the book, that it's in two parts over two days. Sounds like another Anna Karenina but without the sex. I figure it's the only way I'll get to 'read' the book. I reckon reading War & Peace is possibly one of those things you should do before you die and as I've explained, I'm already on the descent down the other side of the hill of life.

L sees things differently of course, she's a woman, and she's bought the book and intends to read it before we see the play, which isn't until February. So it's a tight schedule. As she says, that's her weekend sorted, in fact that's many weekends sorted. So Harry and me have to make room in the bedroom for Tolstoy now. Hope she's not on her bike; it could be tricky carrying that home.

She's also got Felini for tea tonight and she says it’s a big one. So it's a good job I'll be hungry after squash. Felini? Hmmm, I quite liked a couple of his films, but didn’t know he'd branched out into cooking too.

I get home to find something phallic on the bed. She's right it is a big one. It seems a Felini is a sausage.

Squash. I win the first game; lose the second. The third is key, I give away a big lead and lose it 17-15. Somehow I come back and level by winning the fourth but then play badly in the decider, losing the match 3-2. Then mentally exhausted I lose the two games after that.

In the pub we have some awful Archers Beer, so bad that I have to have a second pint to wash away the taste of the first but I retreat onto the Nottingham EPA. L texts to say she's nipping out for a bottle of gin. Either she's had a really bad pilates session or she's started the sloe gin.

Back home we munch on the Felini, with cheese and have a glass of red.