We have just returned from a hack around Zeal Monachorum, with you in the sling, me with no sticks or other support, and your Ma on dog-wrangling/stick-chucking duties. It was a lovely crisp afternoon, and a total pleasure.
Later, after I've tackled the notoriously challenging North Face of the post-Christmas recycling mountain and your mother has whittled a meal from nought but the last sweepings of the fridge, I intend to watch The Greatest Showman, featuring Neighbours reject Guy Pearce.
Despite this being a musical that isn't Cabaret or Catherine Zeta Jones' Chicago, I have high hopes for it. No doubt my aim to accompany said tits'n'teeth extravaganza with the last of the Stoli will reap untold dividends. Looks alright, to be fair:
Even more uproariously, my old mucker Chris has offered me at ticket to a day at the final Test Match against Australia next September. Now, it's probably going to mess up our wedding anniversary, but I'd still like to go quite a bit. You never know, though - England may have it all wrapped up by then. Or I might be dead. Who knows? If you want to win, first you must accept the risk of losing.
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