This week... *reflects*... objectively a good one. Nonetheless, I now commit its muted highlights to pixels, prematurely. Sorry, it's all dragging of boots and backward glances tonight.
And so, the cutaway shot. Tuesday evening:
A Stopfordian slosh of Extra Stout, while stalling for the 21.23 home. Your faux-humble narrator holed up in the snug, arousing the curiosity of the more philosophical regulars while poring over something wordy-looking.
It could all have gone so wrong, but - having politely declined the pick of a dozen large shoulders-of-lamb (out of a suitcase, "half price, son - Asda's best!") - I was spontaneously treated (emphasise passive form of the verb) to a one-man skiffle revival.
There then followed a procession of pasted-smile anecdotes about Lonnie Donegan's top Fleetwood nightspots. Oh, it were grand.
Places to go, suddenly so many people to see! I just had to hit the rails.
Then, the home straight, a sighting of Elvis Himself - perhaps - arranged convincingly on my rear windscreen courtesy of some deft avian artist. A genius: the indisputable craft of a sparrow, the prolific arse of a Crow.
Meanwhile never stops - we fly over Chesterfield the day after tomorrow. The Dreaming Spire, no less (singular - this noted church a childhood shorthand for We Are Really Not Nearly There Yet, and in 2009 we're still not There yet).
Nil-one certainty, and a drive home predictably laden with the usual heavy sighs.
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