Up with the lark to iron shirts. And to do the washing up which the first fruit of my loin said he would do last night. He also said he’d pull up the bindweed in the garden today, and he didn’t do that either. Then to the petrol station. I still only fill the car once a month - my new car seems to do twenty miles more than the old car did on a tank of petrol. Another saving can’t be bad. And so to work, which was the same as ever. One day I shall spit my dummy out, and have a rant at a vanishingly small minority of my colleagues. But not today. Instead I shall content myself with a general observation: it never fails to amaze me that the people who believe they are the hardest working are usually those who actually do the least.
Home, and on to Folkestone. Firstly to visit that quality supermarket which is Morrisons. You know a supermarket is a cut below the rest when you realise you have to pay a deposit to use the trolley, and there’s no denying that the clientele were best described as being “a bit council”, but after all was said and done, their beer selection was second to none, and in my book (and this *is* my book!) that’s what counts.
And then on to a friends house for the weekly Sci-Fi night, as we have had pretty much every Tuesday for the last seventeen years. Tonight we went back to our roots and watched some good old Star Trek. Tonight’s episode was an old favourite – you can’t beat a bit of Ferengi. Which has made me think - bearing in mind the sixty-second Rule of Acquisition (“The riskier the road, the greater the profit”), could there be gold underneath them thar hills?