After having to be careful on a blog site because it is your only website; and you want to sell tickets for shows; it’s nice to have a blog I can use for traditional blogging: like typing when I am blathered.

I have had a couple of nice, domestic, days. All the people I know have either almost zero time families, or full time ones. I am more like the former, but not totally, and after many days of working or fixing family stuff or work stuff, these last two days are the first time I have felt free to do ‘chores’ in my own home, because I want to, and not because I would not be able to eat, or flush, if I failed to do them. There was nobody I had to meet and nothing I had to finish.

I used the time to clear the downstairs table so I could start the jigsaw of 50’s packets and tins. I have started that, and it is great.

Today I went out to pick blackberries in Bradford, buy filling for a sponge cake, and visit places I used to live. I got enough berries for a small snack, but they were not even enough for a pie; let alone wine.

I thought about filming the walk, but am glad I did not try. I am not saying that the blokes who were hanging about on All Saints Road, who looked like they had little daily contact with either money or soap, would have talked to me in a loud voice about filming them; but I am glad I did not stimulate a discussion.

To soften the berry disappointment I called in the ‘Fighting Cock’ (splendid pint of Wylam) and then to Haigy’s; where I ate roast pork, cheese, crackers, and nuts; in which pub I found I had travelled back in time to a Bennie Hill show. When I tell you the prettiest woman at the bar had just got a cat, and it was small enough to sit in her hand, you can guess enough to make your own show. I only stayed for 4 pints because I wanted feeding; and I refused a sausage (unlike the lass next to me).

The only down side of the day is that I baked no sponge. I could try now, but I am old enough to know that me 0r the cake would get badly burnt.

PS: After a bit of a chat the pretty woman told me her granddaughter was the Cooke that turned the ‘Devonshire Arms’ into Cookey’s (the one who used to pay for adverts in the local paper so he could be even more publicly angry than he was in his pub). She hated him; and it turned out so did everyone else in Haighy’s who had ever met him.

What ever else I fail in, stimulating conversation is not one of them.

PPS: I think the cat was called Ez.