To be honest, I would rather not write anything this week and there are a hundred places I would rather be than my own skin.
I think my eyesight is on the way out. At silly o’clock yesterday morning, I was hoovering in preparation for a flying visit from the kids.
I spent a good minute on a mysterious dark patch that had suddenly appeared on the living room floor, yet it was only when I got on my hands and knees that I realised it was my own shadow.
I had a good laugh at that one and so did Henry the Hoover. I sometimes look across the room at little Henry’s annoying grin.
It reminds me of that film, Castaway, with Tom Hanks, where all he has to keep him company on a desert island is a volleyball called Wilson.
But while the Butchelor Pad may indeed be deserted, this is no desert island.
I have both lukewarm and cold running water.
To prove it I got a massive water bill through the letterbox this week which made the old eyes water.
Then Vodafone texted with a grossly offensive bill from last month – three times my usual amount.
Readers will remember that when I moved in here, I racked up hours on hold to the various utility companies – burning through my monthly data allowance.
The irony of getting a massive bill from the water company for telling them I exist and a massive bill from the telephone company for doing so, made my neck twitch.
I had to sit down for a while with a stiff eye-opener having felt another stabbing pain in the chest (pocket).
I’m glad to report though that the big sister is back – safe, sound and bronzed from a week in balmy Madeira.
Despite me having taken charge of all three of her delinquent dogs, there has been no phone call from her to ‘touch base’.
Like many now, she communicates entirely via Facebook where I notice she apparently went on a Jeep Safari.
I’m just relieved nobody shot her – easy as she is to mistake for a Gazelle.
I also read this week that Liam Gallagher from Oasis has packed in the drink and the smokes – yet still manages to sing like he is shouting up a drainpipe.
And on YouTube, I saw a clip of Bez from the Happy Mondays who has been ruining a ruined reputation by taking the shilling from dancing on ice.
Even the hell-raisers of my youth are handing over their badges and guns, and it pains me to watch.
Apparently, it is the winter Olympics somewhere in the world and given how cold the Butchelor Pad has been, I know how the competitors feel.
So I was dutybound to pull on my winter coat and go in search of a real roaring fire.
I met a young man at a bar who told me he peels potatoes for a living – starting at 6am, finishing at 2pm.
He philosophically shrugged it off as “a job’s a job at the end of the day,” and when I looked, it was a relief to see no chips on his shoulders.
At another establishment, I heard someone else say the exact same expression as they bemoaned their own nine to five.
But what about the start of the day? Or is making money to meet the bills all we are here for?
On my travels, I got talking to a bar maid who was telling me in vivid detail where she plans to put everything in her new house.
She was very excited and I suppose saying it aloud helps her visualise where things might go.
But by the time she finished, I felt like I personally had moved in every stick of furniture and put up every shelf, which was quite exhausting.
It has been quiet this week on the old music front, and I could bore you with Luke Kelly of The Dubliners and a song called the Bonny Shoals of Herring.
It reminds me of going off shore with a rum bunch of fishermen from Maryport for a feature I wrote for a magazine a lifetime ago.
It’s probably better you watch it yourself and make your own mind up.
Having just waved both girls off on the night train, I have returned to the chiller to find a half-nibbled chocolate heart lolly that I bought one of them for Valentine’s Day.
It breaks mine to even contemplate throwing it away.