CK and his Amstel

Another blurry blip. Such is life.
I'd been out to take a parcel to maw's at the behest of the bossy sister. Wincyette pyjamas, as the sis was concerned she had slept in her day clothes a couple of days back. Maw, it can be reported, may not be cooperative on this one. She tells me that jammies get hooked up her bum crack and she prefers a nighty. I'm staying out of it.
After a freezing traipse along the canal for some exercise and a CD, I was back home sawing the fiddle. The Smith's a Gallant Fireman. Which my pal AJ mistook as a Smiths number when I reported on progress over a teatime pint. It's a fine Strathspey, of course. This isn't AJ - it's his mucker, CK. He gently mocked my waistcoat. It's for keeping the rosin in my little pocket, I explained. How long are you aiming to practice each day, he asked. Thirty minutes, says I. Not enough, he said with a shake of the head: an hour, minimum. There you have it. The dishes may have to go unwashed.
Later was the daughter's grand birthday banquet down town at an upmarket noshery. It all went swimmingly, though I fear daughter's beau's enjoyment may have been tempered by finding the food too rich, or something ....