At last. A bit of warm air.
 
Here in the UK, we have all been walking round with our coats on all day as a result of the cold weather - even in the house!
 
It's been miserable.
 
Not quite Northern Siberia, but pretty close; judging by the army of forlorn figures trudging past the window on the way to work every morning.
 
It's like a scene from one of those horror movies, where all the zombies shuffle mindlessly in the same direction; in this case, towards the railway station - in the vain hope that a train will actually arrive on time for once.
 
Fat chance.
 
The only time that a train ever arrives 'on time' in the UK is when it happens to arrive at the allotted time at which a later train was supposed to arrive.
 
And then they lie to you, and tell you that you must have been mistaken.
 
"No. No," they tell you. "You're not on the 7:42. You're on the 8:15."
 
"Well, what happened to the 7:42?" you protest.
 
"7:42? 7:42? There's no 7:42 on this line. Is there Alf?"
 
"No," says Alf, lying through his teeth. "No 7:42 round here. You must be getting confused."
 
"Well, there was a 7:42 yesterday," you tell them.
 
"Ah. But that was yesterday," says Alf. "But today is today. Isn't it, Bert?"
 
"That's right, Alf," says Bert. "Today is today, not yesterday."
 
"Well, is there a 7:42 tomorrow?" you ask impatiently; knowing full well that the reply will not be to your liking.
 
"Dunno," says Alf. "It all depends on … ". At which point you just give up listening and hope that Alf will die and that Bert will be mortally wounded sometime during the next 24 hours.
 
Preferably at 7:42.
 
But spring was in the air today - the temperature having reached a whopping 13 degrees C - and both the missus and I were in a good mood.
 
Indeed, she was actually humming quite chirpily as she vacuumed the carpet, dusted the furniture and polished the mirror before washing the dishes.
 
I opened the window to let out some of the dust and flopped back on to the sofa.
 
"If you hurry, we can get to the supermarket before lunch," I informed her.
 
"That's a good idea, Harry," she said, as she lifted up the sofa to get at a chocolate of mine that had rolled under it the night before.
 
"Any luck?" I asked, shifting my weight to lighten the load for her.
 
"Got it," she said victoriously.
 
"You can have that one," I said. "I've got plenty more in the box."
 
Choking back her gratitude, she stuffed it hungrily into her mouth and even chewed the moisture out of some of the carpet hairs that were stuck to it.
 
"You can have another one later. Perhaps tomorrow," I told her. "If there's any left."
 
We arrived at the supermarket car park at about the same time as two thousand other folk, so we spent a good hour and a half queuing in the road and then circling the car park perimeter en masse, over and over again until, finally, we managed to shoot into a spare parking place before anybody else.
 
Thankfully, I was fast asleep during this whole interlude, but the missus told me about it later.
 
I lay in the back seat staring out of the window and listening to the people coming and going.
 
Shopping is such a bore, I thought.
 
I looked at my watch.
 
The missus had already been gone for about two hours. I must have dozed off again and not noticed the time.
 
She returned some ten minutes later with a shopping trolley packed to the brim with edible goodies.
 
"Did you remember the Crimbles?" I called out to her as she unloaded the items into the boot.
 
"Oh Harry. They weren't on the list," she said.
 
"No. I forgot," I replied. "Never mind," I continued. "You can just pop back and get a few packets. I'll keep an eye on the car."
 
"The queues are very long," she replied dolefully.
 
"No problem," I said. "I could do with a longer nap."
 
In the end, we did not return home until quarter to five; mostly thanks to the missus forgetting the Crimbles and taking far, far too long to load and then unload the car.
 
I think that she's slowing down in her old age.
 
So it might be time for a younger model.

Preferably a thin one; because fat ones eat too much.

Thin ones, therefore, save you money.

(I wish I'd figured that out before I met her.)

But, all told, it had been a pleasant day. And I was feeling quite relaxed and in good spirit as I turned on the TV to watch the cricket.
 
And the supper was one of my favourites.
 
Leg of lamb, roast potatoes, a couple of chicken legs, chips, strawberry ice cream and beer.
 
It was truly delicious.
 
So I gave the missus what I felt she now fully deserved.
 
"Here," I said. "Have another one of these chocolates."

And then I tied her up just in case she inadvertently spoke during an important part of the match.

So, all in all.

A very good day indeed.

Unnnnnnnnbelieveable!

Do you know how much a pack of toilet rolls now costs in the UK?

You are not going to believe this.

About 13 US dollars.

THIRTEEN DOLLARS!

And 20% of that is TAX!

TWENTY PERCENT!

That’s right Folks. Here in the UK, you have to pay $2.60 to the government just to be able to wipe your own a*se!

And I want you people out there to think very long and hard about that; because it is a crime.

And when, after a hard day's work, you get home at night and decide that it is time to evacuate the evacuees - if you see what I mean - I want you to think very carefully about what you are doing.

Could you use one sheet instead of six?

Are there any new women's magazines lying about?

Did your sister or wife leave a face cloth somewhere in the bathroom?

Where are all those wedding photos of your mother-in-law?

Because no way are you going to pay some greedy government employee a few cents every time that you wipe your very own a*se.

Someone else's a*se, maybe.

But your very own a*se?

NEVER!

That a*se is a self-owned a*se.

That a*se is a tax-free zone.

And that a*se gets wiped completely free of all charges!