A blizzard of girls

15st 7lb, 4.5 units. I did some work today. No, really, I did. Sat at a desk all day writing stuff. Even went in to an office to do it, despite the fact that there was a blizzard of sorts taking place, reducing the centre of our nearest village to total chaos. As opposed to the near chaos that is its normal condition, thanks to the fact that there are comparatively few yellow lines along the high street, and no-one takes any notice of them anyway. Or the ‘Give Way’ lines or the pavements, come to that. Mrs H loves living here because it is the only place on the planet where she can claim to be in the upper quartile of responsible and capable drivers.

By the time I had crawled to the main road in a long convoy whose leader felt that a bit of slush on the carriageway demanded that she proceed at a maximum speed of 15mph, I was pretty much inclined to give up and go home, but I persevered. Things greatly improved when I reached the A road, where I was soon able to reach the dizzy heights of 40mph. Then, about 15 miles or half way into my journey, I remembered that the security pass I would need to get into the office at the other end was still attached to the belt of another pair of trousers in my wardrobe, so I was able to turn around, go home and then do the whole damn thing again. Marvellous. Like Groundhog Day, only substantially less amusing.

Because I was originally supposed to be in Northumberland tonight, Mrs H had arranged a “girls’ supper”, to which she now felt she had no alternative but to invite me. She suggested that I might like to get all the sexist remarks and luridly graphic sexual suggestions out of my system before they arrived. I did my best. But I’m guessing that it probably was not good enough. I was allowed to open the wine and sit at the head of the table, where I tried to look avuncular. And probably did, so long as the uncle in question is an overweight, elderly pervert who is rudely frank (or frankly rude) about his wife’s catering.