I'm totally with Andy Murray on this one....

Two years ago the then-teenage tennis sensation was asked who he wanted to win the football World Cup and replied: "Anyone but England." It was a light-hearted remark and a riposte to Tim Henman's quip about Scotland not having qualified. But two years on, and with Murray doing well at Wimbledon, the controversy hasn't died down yet.

Apparently it was a terrible thing to say and it's never going to be forgotten or forgiven no matter what he does, even though he has partially retracted his statement. We've even had usually-sensible columnists like the Mirror's Tony Parsons devoting most of his page to how he will now support anyone except Murray. And callers to radio phone-ins - admittedly not usually the most balanced members of the population - have practically been calling for the rebuilding of Hadrian's Wall.

While Andy may have meant it jokingly, I'm serious. I mean it man. I can't stand England doing well. Which is a bit inconvenient as I live here. Thankfully it doesn't happen that often.

Individual sportspeople I have no problem with. I don't even mind Henman, who a lot of his fellow countrymen seem to dislike because he's fairly posh and hasn't won Wimbledon, unlike all his detractors, who of course would have to just step onto centre court to make Federer quiver with fear. If there's an English athlete doing well I'll give them my full support. It's the teams that I don't like.

However rugby doesn't interest me and cricket's incomprehensible, so that leaves football. Go on, admit it, Euro 2008 was great. And much more fun due to the absence of British teams, especially England.

I remember that sinking feeling on a Saturday near the conclusion of the qualifiers when Scotland's efforts had come to nothing and it looked like England were somehow going to fluke their way through. Thankfully Croatia cruised to victory in the final game, therefore sparing us a summer of 'our brave boys going for glory' with front page exclusives on what David Beckham's had for breakfast. And then the shock horror "How can this possibly happen?'' headlines when they go out in the quarter finals.

During the last World Cup a colleague asked why I didn't just join in and cheer on England 'along with everyone else.' It's because I can't. I actually physically can't.

Maybe this is because when I was younger I wasn't given the chance to. At the age of seven my family moved south of the border from my safe Caledonian home. At every school I went to afterwards I was the only Scottish pupil. I might as well have had a target tattooed on my forehead, especially when it came to sporting matters.
It didn't matter what the score was, whether England won , drew or lost - or indeed whether Scotland won, drew or lost, although admittedly the latter was always more likely - I was still going to get stick. Some was jokey, but a lot definitely wasn't. Whichever variety it was, it was relentless. Yet, I'm still supposed to want England to do well. Hmm.

Dare to complain and I'll get the 'but we support Scotland except when they play England' stuff. Yes, in the way you'd support a sick puppy. We're never going to win anything and we know it.  England however seem to reckon they have a divine right to do so. Every time they qualify for anything you'll get headlines like: "We can win it." Er, no you can't. The entire justification for this is: "How can we not win it? We're England!"' After all, they've won it before. In 1066 I think it was. That time when they played all their matches at home and changed the rule that said the ball had to cross the line to count as a goal...

Andy is unlikely to win Wimbledon - although he seems to think he can - but surely both sides of the Auld Enemy can unite to support him no matter what he's said in the past. After that remarkable comeback earlier this week he deserves it. But don't forget the rules of the game down here  - if he wins he's a Brit, if not he's a Scot. By the way, if he loses in the quarter-final will he end up suffering from post-Nadal depression?

And if it makes you feel any better, we're really, really sorry for giving you Gordon Brown.

I got in a bit of a tangle last weekend. But not in a drunken way. In fact I was totally sober and just about to head for bed in order to get up bright and early for work.

In my bedroom there is a clothes rack which holds a wide range of poor-quality outfits. Because of its positioning I usually lean slightly on it when going past. Unfortunately this time I put too much weight on, knocked it off balance and ended up pulling the entire thing down on myself. Unable to pull the rack up, I had to crawl along the floor to find a gap amongst the swamp of shirts piled on top of me. And then spend around 20 minutes repositioning the rack and getting the once-ironed but now-crumpled clothing up off the floor.

Not an ideal end to a Sunday night, but fairly par for the (assault) course - I've always been accident-prone. The rest of the world is just waiting for any opportunity to attack me. It could have been worse. At least it was in private in my own home. Among the many embarrassing incidents at other people's places, I once managed to pull a (thankfully-empty) wardrobe over on top of myself. And there was the time a bedroom door handle came off in my hand when I got up to go to the toilet...

Because of this I'm in a constant state of not quite fear, but certainly fatalism. If anything can possibly go wrong it will. I was totally convinced that the graduation event I attended earlier this year - entirely due to family pressure - would culminate with me tripping over the robe and ending up flat on my back in front of an audience of academics and proud parents. And the footage would be on YouTube by that afternoon, perhaps with the caption "THIS IS HILARIOUS" followed by 15 exclamation marks. In the end I stayed upright but heaven knows how.

But it's not just me. It's mostly me, but other people do occasionally have accidents. A colleague here at The Star recently did his ribs in - by falling into a wheelie bin. He had been attempting to retrieve something erroneously thrown away, leaned too far forward...and CRASH! He's used to seeing a load of rubbish every couple of weeks due to the football team he supports, but surely he didn't have to get that close? Anyway, he was so embarrassed by the entire incident he asked me not to mention him by name. That's no problem at all Nick. Incidentally, which Ward were you treated in?

I also once remember reading about a bloke who came home after a night out and leaned his forehead against the wall while getting the keys out of his pocket. We've all done it, but unfortunately there was a little hook attached to the wall, which he managed to get caught under his eyelid. The poor chap had to stand in the same position until the morning when he managed to alert someone who called the emergency services and free him from this sharp predicament.

Elvis Costello once had a hit with a single entitled Accidents Will Happen. They do. As I proved the one and only time I've ever seen the specky singer/songwriter play live - an occasion when I managed to break a finger getting out of my seat after the show. The pair of colleagues I was with at the time thought it was hilarious - especially when I had to dip the twisted digit in my beer afterwards to try and stop the pain. However, after I'd been to the hospital and the injury was confirmed one of these workmates admitted that he'd also managed to have a similar accident during his youth - while putting a record onto a turntable. Sadly it wasn't a Stiff Little Fingers single.

The most frightening accident I've ever had involved me and my moggie. Before I had my living room redecorated there was a long shelf on the back wall, with the couch also against the wall under it. One evening, while I was lying down watching the telly, Pongo decided to jump up on the shelf. Aiming to tease her, I began tapping the bottom (of the shelf not the cat. To do the latter would be just sick). The totally humourless feline responded by reaching out to claw me. Then slipped off...

If you've ever seen that painting The Scream, that's what my face looked like as an extremely angry animal headed straight for it. People in car crashes often say that it seems to happen in slow motion. Well, my entire life flashed before me several times. It wasn't fun. My entire life that is, not to mention the fact I was just about to be pulped. In the end I escaped with a black eye and a series of scratches down one side of my face. Cue inevitable questions about what had happened and the even more inevitable jokes about how lucky I was to have a (censored: slang word for cat, also used to describe a certain part of the female anatomy) in my face.

My favourite accident ever happened to an all-time pop hero of mine, former Soft Cell frontman Marc Almond. Well-known for singing about the seedier side of life, he was a regular visitor to Soho where he would peruse the strip joints and suchlike. However one evening he was strolling along minding his own business - and one of those huge pink neon signs fell off the wall of a premises of ill-repute and and landed on top of him. How brilliantly apt. And luckily for him, liability was accepted. As he said at the time: "The word 'compensation' helps me sleep at night."

Unluckily for me, I've never been involved in an accident which would entail a payout. Which is a shame because I would love to appear in one of those adverts for insurance firms. Something along the lines of: "John was born. It all went wrong after that. He claimed £500." However, even if I did get this cash, I'd probably lose it or accidentally flush it down the toilet. Some people, you see, just don't get the breaks. Unless it's their bones.

 

It's almost the end of the year, so it's time to take stock of events of the 365 days that have just about passed. The space between crimbo and...er...nimbo, is usually a time of limbo with not a lot going on except the chance to think about achievements or otherwise.

As far as I'm concerned 2007 will remain in my head because I did something something I've never done before and indeed swore I'd never do...watched a James Bond film. I also managed to pass my Masters degree (so now I can insist on being referred to as 
Lazy Ginger Jock - or other insult of choice - BA (Hons), MA.)

Apart from that it's been a pretty run-of-the-mill period and now it's nearly over I'm preparing myself for New Year...by attemping to ignore it. This usually proves to be an impossible task because of my northern British and non-English nationality.

From October onwards I have to put up with countless questions about my intentions for seeing in the end of the year. These usually go along the lines of: "Of course, you lot don't celebrate Christmas, do you? New Year's Eve's your big night. Or, as you call it, Hogmanay."  The final word is usually pronounced "Hoagmaanaay" just to emphasise the Caledonian culture they hope to evoke. Ah yes, it certainly brings back the whiff of whisky and deep-fried Mars Bars. I don't think.

I hate to disappoint you all, but we do celebrate Christmas and the changing of the calendar is no more of a big deal there than it is in England. Admittedly the last time I spent a New Year's Eve up there was at the age of ten but I've since asked family members and friends still in Scotland. They aren't too bothered about it either.

I'm totally convinced it is a stunt by the Scottish tourist board to try and convince people to spend their cash north of the border. And it works. I'm sure that if you held a 'spot the Scot' contest in Edinburgh city centre there would be very few winners. It's all outsiders hoping for a bit of authenticity. Best of luck to them, but I have to point out that kilts are not normal everyday wear up there.

I also get asked if I'm going 'home' for New Year. Well yes, at some point during 2008 I probably will enter my own house - but I presume that they mean heading up to the Highlands. Even though I'm from a town near Glasgow. Someone who I'd known since I was a teenager once asked me if I was going 'home, like you always do.' I was forced to point out that not only had I had not only spent every New Year since moving to England actually in England, but this person had actually seen me out in Sheffield several times on that night through the years.

This is because - despite my misgivings - I do usually force myself out. After all, you can't be a party-pooper unless you're actually at the party. Even though my hopes are never too high, I'm usually left disappointed.

There has been the odd good one. A couple of schoolfriends chose that date for their wedding, which was fun, and there were a couple of excellent efforts in Nottingham in the early 1990s (the latter of which is my second-favourite night out ever, beaten only by September 20th 1987. Not that I'm anally retentive or anything). But they are exceptions to the rule.

Two years after that classic night out I had the ultimate bad break due to the 'drunken buffoon falling down stairs and landing on - the totally sober - me' experience, which ensured that I spent the first month of the year flat on my back in hospital and still suffer repercussions 16 years later. A real Eve of destruction that one was. Having said that, it was better than the previous New Year, in that at least something happened....

Anyway, whatever you're doing, have fun and just don't take the risk of sitting at the bottom of a flight of stairs. The idiot who did it to me is still on the loose. See you in 2008. Hopefully.

It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid. Apparently.

But I'm scared. You see, it's the eve of the big day...and inevitably I haven't finished my festive shopping. However, I have started it, which at least is an improvement on previous years. In one way I am a typical male. Trudging round purchasing places just isn't my idea of fun. My idea of fun is....er....never mind that for now.

I'm not a big fan of shopping at any point of the year, but the pre-Christmas period is definitely not the most wonderful time of the year as it involves millions of people milling about frantically searching for stuff, although if they waited a week or so they'd be able to get most items cheaper. Maybe somone should swap the calendar round. It would make crimbo so much cheaper if it came straight after the January sales

Anyway many of these people seem - like heat-seeking missiles - so determined to get to their targets that nothing will stand in their way. Someone like me, who has difficulty standing at the best of times, certainly isn't going to be an obstacle. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that a herd of buffalo-type shoppers has sent me flying. An armoured tank would be handy in situations like that.

Of course the Internet has made shopping easier for many, but the extremely annoying on-off (but mainly the latter) situation with my internet connection has only just been resolved, leaving it a bit late to purchase things online. Incidentally my shopping phobia doesn't have anything to do with being mean - as Scots are inevitably accused of being (usually a couple of times a year I will open my wallet and someone will make an 'hilarious' comment about moths flying out of it) - I just don't like shops. Full stop.

Man cannot live on fresh air alone, so solutions have to be found. There is even a friend of mine who acts as my personal shopper, since she not only adores stores but also has things like style and taste. When I got my flat redecorated last year I let her search out and select all the furniture for me. It was either that or live in a bare house, perhaps using the cat litter tray as a seat. Unfortunately this year she's deserted me in my hour of need and temporarily left the country, so I have to do it all by myself this time. Life can be cruel sometimes.

And so it is Christmas and what have I done? Very little in the way of shopping basically. So there are still a few things I still need to get in time for tomorrow. Presents mainly. Which means stepping into the city centre throng. To buy humbugs. Or whatever the expression is. Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye...

A very merry festive period to all my readers. Or, to be more accurate, all of my reader.

The human race has an infinite capacity for both being annoyed and being annoying. If there's one thing that everyone has in common it is that no matter what their circumstances are they are bound to find something not to their liking.

Bearing that in mind, a company which makes milk for those with a lactose intolerance has recently compiled a poll of the things which Britons are most intolerant of themselves. Here it is...
http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/topstories/2007/11/03/100-most-annoying-things-89520-20054978/

I'm heartened to find out that some of my pet dislikes as mentioned in previous blogs are shared by the population in general. These include 'people' who nick disabled parking spaces, Kerry Katona and ANYTHING to do with mobile phones. Others high on the list which I thoroughly agree with are anyone reading over my shoulder (an elbow in the face would be the best solution I've often thought) and slow internet connections. Or in my case, a totally random connection. It's getting to the point where I'm scared to breathe in the direction of the broadband box in case it knocks it off.

Admittedly some more of my bete noires are nowhere to be seen, but then they don't make any sense except to me. You know when you're waiting for a lift and another person presses the button for where they want it to come rather than the direction they want it to go (ie you're on the ground floor and someone presses the downward button to open the door)? Well, that drives me mad. And yes, I know it doesn't make any difference at all. Even more strangely, speaking as someone who is pretty short-sighted, it really annoys me when swimmers wear glasses. Goggles I can (just about) understand, but specs? It's a 33-metre pool, there really are no man-eating sharks lurking under the water.

Conversely I just don't mind some of the things on the list. Or more to the point just don't care about them. James Blunt for example. I wouldn't go out of my way to listen to one of his songs, but neither would I run out of the room screaming. Holding my ears maybe but not screaming. Lower down the list, Keira Knightley is quite cute, while 'bad hair days' are nothing compared to what some would describe as having a bad hair life. There are much more irritating things in the world, ranging from television programmes - I'm An Extremely Minor Celebrity, Let's Torture Small Animals - to simple phrases - "I'm on a roll.''  Yeah, really? Well I'm on a sandwich...

Of course the world of work is a prime place for building up little resentments. Everyone here at the moment is truly beautiful both outside and in though, and I'm not just saying that because some of them may read this. Oh okay, I am. Ricky Gervais said that the reason The Office proved to be so popular is that it tuned into a situation almost everyone is familiar with - the petty jealousies of the workplace. According to Gervais members of the Mafia probably think: "I've killed more people than him. How come he's got a better chair?"

There are no mass murderers at Sheffield Newspapers - I hope - but the place has had its share of irritating characters over the years. One former colleague had the habit of walking round the office telling others - all sitting at their desks - that he was the only person who was working hard in the entire building. Can you see the contradiction there? He obviously couldn't.

This sort of thing is not just limited to office life though. Even the glamorous world of pop has its problems. New Order's Peter Hook once said that he was glad that the band once took a lengthy break because he couldn't stand the way that singer Bernard Sumner would lick his fingers after eating a bag of crisps. Closer to home, Pulp's Russell Senior made the unlikely claim that after the group finally became successful they ended up hating the colour of each other's socks more than they hated fascism.

Education isn't exempt either. On my degree course there was one fellow who liked the sound of his own voice rather too much and would constantly interrupt the lecturers with his opinions. It didn't really bother me but the student sitting next to me spent one session writing notes during every interruption. I thought he must be really interested in what was being said until I glanced at his notebook and saw that he'd just been repeatedly writing: "Shut the (expletive deleted) up!"

So there we go. However, there is one thing that annoys me more than the entire top hundred list combined. And that's myself. To paraphrase the Pet Shop Boys classic It's A Sin: "Everything I've ever done, everything I'll ever do, every place I've ever been, everywhere I'm going to..." It's not a sin - as I've lived the life of a monk - but it does get on my nerves. Do other people think like that (I mean that they find themselves irritating, not that they find me irritating) or am I really the only one? How annoying!

Beauty is only skin deep, so the saying goes. But the lottery of looks is one which it is becoming harder to win if your appearance is anything out of the ordinary. 

I've no problem with people being complimented for their facial qualities. What makes me cringe is when anyone gets described as 'ugly' as if it's the biggest crime known to humanity. It's not. What you look like is more or less a matter of luck. You can do things to improve certain aspects but it's pretty difficult to totally alter the ingredients you were born with.

Yet the emphasis some of the media now has on the way people look often verges on the disgusting, ranging from personal insults aimed at anyone who doesn't make the grade to the rash of makeover programmes which imply that it's not really what's on the inside that counts - all that matters is the exterior. It is - in my view at least - fast becoming a problem affecting the entirety of society. Those whose jobs have nothing to do with their looks should not be judged as if it matters. Who really cares what politicians look like, for example? If we could create a world in which they are heard but not seen, there might be the chance of some decent policies being created.

If your face doesn't fit you are simply not given the opportunities afforded to others. The standardised, bland Hollyoaks-style look is not beauty in my book, but some people seem to just want to create a nation of clones - any individuality is seen as a bad thing. This 'lookism' is imposed from a very young age. Beautiful baby contests may be just a bit of fun, but what about those who don't win? I'm not suggesting that they're scarred for life, but there is a big difference in upbringing between those who are constantly told how attractive they are and those who aren't.

Even those whose face literally is their fortune think that somehow they started off as ugly ducklings and then - as if by magic - suddenly transformed into beautiful swans. At least once a week I seem to read an interview with a supermodel/glamorous actress in which she says something along the lines of: "Oh, I was SO ugly when was young. No-one ever fancied me at school." Yeah, sure, whatever you say... The only sensible replies to this sort of nonsense are: "No you weren't,'' and: ''Yes they did."

A similar situation, although probably not to as great a degree, exists with males as well. As once pointed out - by a member of Irish rock band Therapy? - the real angry outsider isn't the tall, thin, good-looking guy with a couple of piercings. It's the little fat bloke with specs and an anorak.

Recently a Sunday magazine contained a big feature on how awful it can to be born beautiful - apparently you get hassled, stalked and just not taken seriously. I wouldn't know about the beauty bit, but the latter part certainly rings a bell. That's 'rings a bell' Quasimodo-style...

You see, I've got a very big problem with my face. One that nobody else can see as a problem. It just hasn't aged as it should. Don't you feel sorry for me? I can practically see the lumps growing in people's throats. Just about every time in my entire life I've told anyone my age, I've had the same reply: "Oh, you don't look it!" Then the other person tells me how old they thought I was. Entire decades and more are just eradicated. I hate it but everyone else thinks I should see it as a good thing. I don't even have an attic, let alone a picture of myself as I should look in it.

In the university library a few weeks ago I was asked by a staff member if I was an undergraduate. In fact, if I'd gone to university straight after school, and became a father at the same time as I graduated, my child could now have completed a degree too. That's how old I am.

And that wasn't just a one off. Other examples include the time a schoolfriend of mine was asked if he was my dad (ironically I was one of the oldest in our year and he was one of the youngest), and when a woman doing a questionnaire refused to believe I wasn't in the 15-19 age group - I was 33 at the time. It's only a couple of years since I was asked by a shop assistant if I was old enough to buy alcohol. I thought the woman was joking at first until I looked into her eyes and realised she was being serious.

This state of permanent Peter Pannishness is immensely embarrassing. Yet dare to voice any disquiet and all I'll hear is how lucky I am and how everyone else would like to look younger than they are. Perhaps, but not that much younger. And if one more person ever says: "Yeah, but just think how good it will be when you're 70. You'll probably only look about 40," I will personally make sure that they're not alive to see whether I do or not.

You know that programme Ten Years Younger, in which they give people a makeover to ease away the excess ageing they seem to have picked up? I'd like to suggest an alternative, Ten Years Older, in which the experts add grey hair, wrinkles, bald patches etc. I'd watch it. In fact I'd be the first to apply for it.

You see, I'm not just a pretty face. Sorry, that should read 'not even'...

Did you miss me - yeah? - while I was away? Did you hang my picture on your wall?
Probably not, but it's been a while since I last communicated with the outside world, so if anyone has even noticed my absence, I have returned at long last returned to the world of blogging.

The reason was the dissertation mentioned in my last effort, (which was only at the start of August, even though it seems to me like it was prior to the dawn of civilisation). I thought it was hard then, but it got harder and harder and harder. Now there's a sentence I don't get the chance to use often.

I did a draft and emailed it to my university supervisor and then went to see him a few days later. He lulled me into a false sense of security with his first words: "There's some really good stuff here,'' before suggesting massive rearragements and rewrites. And he undoubtedly knows best. Even if he is a Wednesday fan. Sorry, that's a pointless comment...

So it was a matter of battening down the hatches (whatever that means), chaining myself to the computer and going for it, even if it meant hardly going to bed for almost a month. It wasn't fun. If I'm going to do allnighters, I'd at least like music and dancing. Instead, it was hours on end of trying to make some sense out of the structuration versus morphogenesis debate in political science. In fact I'd advise others to look it up and study it too - but only if it really is your life's ambition to die of boredom.

However, now it's finally done, bound and handed in. A total of 14,998 words (I didn't even have the energy left to add an extra two to make it a nice round figure). Now I can get on with the life I left behind and can barely remember. But first I'm going to lie down in a darkened room for as long as possible.

I'll be back to the world of blogs in about a week. Bet you can't wait. Next time I might even have something to write about...

You learn something every day apparently. Apart from at times when you're actually trying to.

As some of you may be aware, I am currently taking a Masters degree in politics at Sheffield University and the final part of it is a 15,000-word dissertation, which is due in on my birthday of all days. That's September 17th. All cards, boxes of chocolates etc to the usual address.

Anyway, it is extremely hard work (I've sat through entire lectures without having the slightest idea what was going on) so I've taken some time off work to study hard. Or at least that's what the plan was.

Now I love reading - it was a family joke during my childhood that instead of eating my breakfast I'd sit checking ingredients on the cereal packet - but when it comes to actually studying, something switches off inside my head. There is ALWAYS something else to do. I'm okay once I get going, but it usually takes several thousand false starts.

There's a great episode of comedy series Black Books in which the shopkeeper played by Dylan Moran sits down to do his accounts, then realises that he hasn't sorted his socks out for a while. The next scene shows 
him sitting surrounded by a pile of several hundred pairs of socks and then he hears a knock on the door and answers it to see a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses.

He invites them in only to discover that - because they've never managed to get beyond someone's doorstep before - they haven't the slightest idea what to say, so he ends up telling them about what happened in the Bible.

During the week there were points at which I wished that someone would decide to try and bring me the good news. Or even the bad news. Scientologists, Moonies, Devil Worshippers - come on down.

I don't usually pick up the telephone at home - having had too many persistent people trying to sell stuff - but last week every time it rang I'd grab it in the hope of some salvation. All that happened in the end was that I built up quite a friendly relationship with Oliver from Talk Talk (that's the phone company, not the eighties band) who took my uhming and ahing as a sign that I really was interested in their great broadband offer.

Talking of which, using the Internet for research purposes is fatal. Wikipedia is a great source of information - until you discover that it has a 'random article' function. So now I know all about the economy of Cyprus, motion sickness, Dr Alex Hautpmann, who was 'the leader of the Informedia project which has made seminal strides in multimedia information retrieval,' museums in Bratislava and lupinus diffuses, a plant 'restricted to dry sandy soils in the southeastern United States'. None of which has any relevance whatsover to my studies. Or indeed, to any part of my life.

Turning on the television is a great risk too. I might just intend to watch the news headlines, but with all those channels to choose from there is always the chance of my attention being swayed by an old episode of On The Buses or a documentary about dinosaurs. On one occasion last year I switched on a music TV channel and discovered that there was a rundown of the '100 worst chart-toppers.' So I watched it. All six hours of it.
I've even started watching Big Brother, for heaven's sake.

Morrissey once sang: "There's more to life than books you know. But not much more." Usually I can be quite satisfied just sitting solitarily reading, but the fact I really had to do it made me crave human contact. However there were some bright spots on the horizon. I had to go for a contact lens check-up. Whoopee! And my burglar alarm was getting its annual maintenance. Hurrah! I even cleaned my flat to mark the latter. In the end I had to rearrange it. Then the firm rang up on the new day and said they were going to have to cancel it. But the guy turned up anyway. Strange. An interesting twist to the week. Well, that's as exciting as it got...

It's not often that people can say they're glad to be back at work after a week off. But this is one of those occasions. My not-so spendid-isolation is over. Except that I'll be doing exactly the same thing next week.