Christmas is Over.

Friday, as you will probably be starting to realise, is our day for the weekly shop preceded by a visit to the garden emporium, here we join the people who lunch. Mrs TD goes for the cullen skink while I enjoy something a little more basic, this particular venue does a mean fish and chips; in the summer it serves an even meaner ploughman's lunch, it is a bone of contention that the practice does not continue through-out the other three seasons. Later on I feel the urge to do penance by beating the living daylights out of my turbo-trainer, a machine of torture used by some of the more perverse cyclists. I feel that the price is on the low side.

Going back a step, the nativity display has now been dismantled, it lies forlornly in a shopping trolley with most of the figures suffering from minor deficiencies in the ear and crown departments, in fact, I would guess that there were numerous pointy bits missing. Had they belonged to The Old Lady's next-door neighbour, they would have been taken indoors, had the pointy bits glued back on and received a fresh coat of paint ready for next year.