Stick a fork in it

Funnily enough, after spending three hours playing Sleeping Dogs, I failed to get up and run this morning. Some might say that was a waste, but I got to see a man on fire run screaming from an exploding car, before the words "You Died" flashed up on screen as if they were worried about any ambiguity existing in the situation.

That meant I didn't get to wear my compression tights to work today: again, it's unclear if that was a missed opportunity or a lucky escape. I managed to pass the day without getting too depressed at this lack of high-tensile undergarments, and then this evening we went shopping for cutlery.

We're blessed with some lovely soup spoons and pastry forks, but unless our diet was nothing but soup and cake (not such a bad thing, I suppose) we have to rely on the fairly cheap cutlery I bought in Kent almost ten years ago. (Well, most of the cutlery: I broke one knife cutting cheese back in Happy Valley, so, so long ago.)

Unfortunately, we just can't find cutlery that's a decent weight and shape: it's all too skinny or too long or just too silly. It's so bad that I'm going to leave the country. Well, I'm going to leave the country and leave it to my wife to forage for a decent set of knives and forks. That's the great kind of husband I am.

Dissatisfied at G.O.D. with the cutlery selections, we still managed to find some things to buy, and we went home clutching a foam footstool, like a giant shrinkwrapped marshmallow, and although I was weary and ready to faint, I did at least have the fun of bumping into careless passersby, who found they bounced off me, rather than clouting me with a sharpened elbow. I might carry the footstool with me everywhere I go in future.

If I find there's a household goods store in Sleeping Dogs where you can beat people up using a foam footstool, I'll be made up.