The lull before the predicted storm

14st 6lb; zero alcohol; 1,426; bumping along the bottom.

It would be hard for even a towering literary genius of the calibre of Jeffrey Archer to construct a readably interesting blog entry out of my typical Sunday: lying in bed reading the newspapers I failed to get through yesterday; doing the ironing while listening to the Archers Omnibus and Desert Island Discs (Liz Smith has had to wait until she is 86 for her invitation, so there is hope yet); packing my bags for a trip to London; taking the dog for a walk. Yet without these interludes of domestic tedium I’d undoubtedly burn myself out by spending every evening on the ale. It is the Geordie way, after all.

I sometimes think that these quiet and homely days would be more pleasant if shared with someone I loved, over and above my Border terrier. But then wouldn’t the fact that my companion was bored out of her mind make for friction and a combined assault on the drinks cabinet that meant we might as well have gone out after all? Unless, of course, I landed one of those sweet old ladies who are never bored because they have got their embroidery and their Sudoku puzzles, the complete works of Mills & Boon and the People’s Friend; plus, if all else fails, the chance to spend an enthralling evening counting their own liver spots. It won’t be long now before I’m with them in the day room, waiting for the cheery jangling of the undertaker’s bells. Oh no, that’s ice cream vans rather than hearses, isn’t it? I’m always making that mistake. I’m not sure what the man from the funeral home put on my last cornet when I asked for chopped nuts, but it was certainly smokier and grittier than I'd hoped.