Making plans for Nigel...

I have a confession to make...

I only went and lit the fire this afternoon.  There was an element of alternative warmth approached as the afternoon progressed with thick socks and a roll neck jumper, but eventually I buckled, and got the kindling out.  

That was an hour ago.

I am now sitting in my shirt sleeves with a fine sheen of sweat across my forehead with the patio door open to allow some of the heat out into the garden.  That's the only issue with an open fire  You can't just turn it down or off, as it just dies down as and when it's ready.  But at least I can now feel the ends of my fingers, something which wasn't happening earlier on, and can type some words without them looking like the offerings of a drunken armadillo.

Have you ever heard of the phrase 'Best laid plans, and all that'?  It is one of my dad's favourite expressions, and a very good example of this happened on Monday night.  I could blame my best friend, Mrs S, but that's slightly unfair, so let's blame life, the laps of the gods, global warming and September instead.

Some time ago, Mrs S had said that she wanted to go and see the new Motown film.  Now this wasn't really my cup of tea, but as she has sat through many dire films with me, the least I could do was agree to go.

Panic set in on Sunday when I discovered that the film was on for one night only (this should have told me everything I needed to know about this film) so I bravely booked two tickets for Monday evening and I rattled off a text to Mrs S.

Her response?  'I am so sorry not already'.  Now we all have those texts where your phone gives a 'helping hand' but I got the gist of it in that she couldn't make it.  'You can come with me', I said to the husband.  He also has seem many dreadful films with me, but notwithstanding that, he agreed to go with me on Monday night.

Do you remember what the weather was like on Monday night?  Rain, wind and freezing temperatures, one of those nights that demanded a hot chocolate and a knee blanket rather than a night out in Didcot.

Believe it or not, all three possible routes into Didcot were jammed solid and the husband took the bold decision to turn round and go home as he reckoned that by the time we got to the cinema the rolling credits would just have finished.

'The dogs won't be expecting us back this quickly', said the husband as we drove back.

I agreed with him, describing the vision that might greet us as we unexpectedly rocked up at the front door again.

The two woofers, with fur coats removed and thrown on the floor, sprawled out on the sofa in their pants while they chewed on a pig's ear and watched old re-runs of Crufts.

As I said, the best laid plans, and all that...