You're probably wondering, as you read this and note the time I posted it, whether I have particularly obliging employers, given that it's slap bang in the middle of the working day.
Last time I checked, "maintaining your own personal blog" wasn't accepted as an in-work activity.
But fear not, for today (and tomorrow) I am away from work. Tonight my sainted wife is taking me to see a Really Great Guitarist Who Was Quite Famous in the Seventies. She's even offering to drive us back home from the gig, which will allow me to indulge in my twin passions of obscure progressive rock and beer.
Prog rock and real ale. How did I ever persuade a real flesh-and-blood woman to spend any time with me?
In response, I am going to be responsible for preparing us both a delicious and nutritional evening meal, ready for her return from work. You're thinking that sounds perfectly reasonable. And you'd be right, were it not for the fact that I am colossally hopeless at things like this.
I've written about this before. Anything that goes beyond microwaving is not just pushing the envelope, as far as I'm concerned it's moving the envelope to a whole new dimension, a universe where mere stationery has never even existed before now.
It's not as if I'm going to be doing anything challenging. It's just chili con carne. The accompanying rice is of the boil-in-the-bag species. Although I'm sure to burn it somehow.
But I will attempt, without Katie's supervision, to provide for us. And I won't do that thing that most non-cooking blokes do when asked to do something vaguely culinary, which is to bang on and on about it. About how they've managed the herculean task of applying controlled heat to organic matter. About how they've slaved over a hot something-or-other for, ooh, minutes at a time. How it's delicious, the most fantastic slightly warmed-up plate of unidentifiable ingredients you've had in months.
Nope, I won't mention it all. Not me. Not here
(P.s. If he plays this tonight, I will not be held responsible for my actions):