It's been a rough couple of days, but with the aid of a good friend (who shall remain nameless, but to whom I shall refer as 'Johnny Walker Black' for convenience) I have survived and triumphed.

The kitchen, which was supposed to be finished within three weeks, has so far taken five, and looks pretty well set to go on into, and probably to the end of, week six;

The brakes on my 4x4 (NB In Cornwall, 4x4 vehicles, or SUVs as they are sometimes called, are not a class status symbol, Chelsea Tractor, or any other derogatory term you can think of - they are at best the norm, at worst the only way to get from A to B in the winter - if you have a problem with that...[makes noise like blowing raspberry, only ruder!]), which were only relined in January, feel like a couple of badly made Victoria sponges being applied to the back of a frying pan;

The cost of my heating oil has reached a point where 750 litres costs enough to plunge a third world nation into 'throw yourself out of the window' levels of debt;

I can't quite put the finishing touches to the quarterly magazine/newsletter I publish for National Coastwatch.

In fact, so much s**t has found its way onto the fan, I've found myself crossing over into some sort of limbo (and dodging a lot of s**t!).

However....

I ate, and enjoyed, a meal at Morrisons cafe last night;

I got up at 0715 (over an hour earlier than normal), with a smile on my face, a spring in my step (well, a step anyway) and didn't even swear when the kitchen guy phoned to say he'd be late, and then didn't show up;

I got stuck into and enjoyed preparing year end accounts for one of my clients, updating the school website, and trying to make sense of various emails that arrived overnight;

In fact I was enjoying things so much, I almost, almost, didn't notice the teensy-weensy hangover that accompanied most of my morning. And of course, a hangover suggests that I may have overdone it last night.

Which might explain why I woke up in the wee small hours on the settee, with my head cranked over at a neck-breaking angle, and my unslippered feet resting precariously on the edge of the coffee table. And the dogs looking at me in adoration, as due to my, what shall we call it....indulgence, they'd been forced to spend the night in the luxury of the carpeted living-room, rather than the draughty floor of the pantry where they usually kip.

Well, I suppose I shouldn't complain. But hell, if I don't complain, people will think I'm Mr NiceGuy. I'm not. I'm a miserable old sod - and in about 14 months I will officially be allowed to become Grumpy Old Man (as opposed to Dirty Old Man, whose mantle I took on in 2002!).

And that is what this blog is all about - practice. Practice for the down-turned corners of the mouth, the querulous, whining voice, and the inability to speak without using the phrase 'when I was your age...'.

Sleep well, casual readers and followers - you either know what I mean, or you have the joys of age yet to come.

Good night.