The razor-blade is too sharp to hurt much

Kenny, our 87-year-old gardener, who doesn’t actually garden any longer but just comes round on a Friday for old time’s sake, came in for a cup of coffee this morning, so I didn’t get the presents wrapped. No matter, plenty of time. I was back at the shop by noon and have just got home. Al hasn’t; he was about to do his order for tomorrow. He says he’ll have to go in earlier tomorrow, to get everything done. I said, whenever it is, I’ll go with him.

I have a brace of partridges in the fridge which, wrapped in streaky bacon and roasted, will make an easy meal. Ro is not fond of game so he will have chicken, similarly wrapped.

And an early night, perhaps.

Update, 7.30 pm. Al has just called in, on his way back to the shop to phone through his orders. He says he is going to start work at 4 o’clock tomorrow morning. I assured him resolutely that I will be ready. Furthermore, that he is right, as it will mean less pressure later in the day.

When he left, I poured a large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

‘Bum’, I thought. ‘BUM.’

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