Reservoir dog tired

14st 1lb; 3.4 units of alcohol yesterday; 1,289; not Fontburn.

Last night I spent a bit of time tinkering with this blog, finally sneaking in a picture of the Less Tall Cheshire Brunette outside Dunstanburgh Castle to brighten up the heading to these pages. Since she has her back to the camera, I thought I might get away with this modest invasion of her privacy. There have been no ructions so far. Next I suppose I should rewrite the header itself to reflect the fact that I am no longer on the wrong side of 15 stone or terminally single; but, with my weight creeping back to the wrong side of 14 stone and my three month probationary period as the LTCB’s boyfriend due to expire next Wednesday, it seems like tempting fate.

Today I was supposed to be going to a party, or perhaps a series of parties, at Fontburn, south of Rothbury, to celebrate the centenary of the reservoir there. I was promised the chance to meet a collection of old codgers whose happy reminiscences of the waterworks and the old Rothbury branch line would enable me to write the sort of column for the local paper that people would want to cut out and keep. Which would be a first, to be honest. But unfortunately I felt thoroughly lethargic all day and barely managed to stay awake long enough to read a newspaper, let alone think about writing for one. In consequence, I went nowhere at all. Oh dear. I have missed an opportunity that will not come around for another 100 years, and am left with nothing to write about apart from that dear old stand-by, Gordon Brown.

Where would I be without him?