Oh dear. I can’t be bothered

You’d never think it was winter. Windy, yes, but not exactly freezing.  And so many golfers out today. Wearing black. Littering the landscape like crows on a field.

And here, inside our tree-house, our weekend-golfer-viewing gallery, it’s cosy, warm and toasty.

Still a revelation, in so many ways, being warm.

The bath ‘crème’ (from an upmarket chain’s basic range, hence the correct French accent, making that spelling just about bearable) pours. No really. It never used to in our old house. You had to squeeze it till blobs plopped out and then whisk the soapy gobbets with your hands till they dissolved.

All sorts of things are easier here.

It’s quiet.

Despite the ebb and flow of hundreds of schoolboys each weekday, it’s leaves that accumulate in our front garden – not the crisp packets and sweet wrappers of yester-house.

My office doesn’t look out over aesthetically challenging metal flues poking out of sad Victorian roofs.

Saturday morning no longer begins with a survey of polystyrene chip-trays dumped overnight.

And there are no kids at the back kicking industrial quantities of footballs over the fence.


Today I have been startled out of my comfortable chair.

I saw myself in a cartoon in a national paper. By Stephen Collins. He’s changed my appearance to protect my identity – but I know it’s me.


Last week I wrote a very angry post. You didn’t see it? Well, that’s because I didn’t post it. I lost my enthusiasm for it. Not in a good way, in a – mehso what – can’t be bothered – kind of way.

So, I thought, best ask Liam to have a go at it.

I have a feeling it will be popping up here, really, quite soon …


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