Whose tongue is now tasting last week's flavour

Another head-hurting day to report, as a result of which not a lot happened except coffee consumption and noisemaking of the eurgggghhhh variety. I wrote a fair bit, and I suppose that’s good all things considered.

Outside the snowflakes floated in the breeze, and I decided to take an invigorating walk along the Dordogne. It was icy-cold, but it cleared my head. The water in the river is so high I had to do a bit of paddling to complete my traditional walk (which is straight out of the handbook issued by the Ministry for Silly Walks). Then the journey to the bottle banks followed, and there was a fair few bottles to bank I can tell you. That should get a bit of interest. It was quite therapeutic getting rid of the reminder of such overindulgence, like destroying the evidence which was reprimanding me like a wagging finger. From now on I will be as pure as the driven snow, or the snow that couldn’t get a lift and had to walk to school.

It was too cold to be outside any longer, so I knuckled down to word processing for the rest of the afternoon, before braving the sub-zero temperatures once more for aperitif hour.

It’s so cold I’ve even closed all my flaps which is something I rarely do. The neighbours will wonder what is going on. Oh, let them talk, let them talk, let them all talk.