Halfway to fifty-eight

Wonderful.

Day off. A rare day all on my own with nothing to do - no-one to please, no-one to displease, as my Grandad once wrote of his preferred pastimes. Great. Or at least, a chance to do the little lazy things I do rarely seeing as I'm someone's dad.

So, off back to bed for two hours, then long bath and into (sorry, up...) Hanley to spend someone else's money on two records by local bands (my first and last CDs in ages) - see he-arrh and a-he-arrh!

Interval: a highly decadent vanilla larr-tay and cookie, costing about the same as two fry-ups. Quick bout of Guardian reader guilt, quickly dispelled by reading said chatter-paper and therefore about someone else's liberal guilt instead.

An idle perusal around some little shoppes, speccing up wooden castles for S's Christmas present - very important task, this. Expensive, but very cool.

Then a quick ascent of that hill at Trentham with the monument on. Grrrrr-anville! he's called. Nice view of huge distribution centres to the fore and away to Shutingsloe in the distance. A beautiful clear day.

Feel great, lungs bursting full of fresh wintery air. Guilty cup of fairtrade tea by the lake. Then off home to blog this and mastermind some tea for la famille, after test-driving new cezve (or Aladdin's lamp if you're two).

After Sam's bath, story and bedtime, I fancy I'll finish watching Persepolis and maybe rock some washing up, such is my no-holds-barred lifestyle.

Glorious fuckin' stuff you increasingly old bastard, I tell myself.