It’s Sunday. Which means the wind has changed from south westerly to a freezing, biting North wind. It’s like mid-December. The family of hares has wisely decided to move to warmer climes. Even the blackbird has moved down from his electricity pole and can be seen scrabbling around on the lawn shouting “Where’s the fecking summer gone?” The icy blasts coincided with the onset of one of my seasonal headaches, after which I cannot move for up to three hours. Then again it might have been minor depression brought by falling for the old trick of thinking my team (Leeds United) might actually win a competitive knock-out game. The Championship Playoff Final was a dreary affair and Leeds basically rolled over and let Watford tickle their tummies for half an hour or so, then went to sleep. They need some pace in midfield. I heard myself shouting that to the rest of the family. “I said, they need some pace in midfield!” They all carried on ignoring me. Luckily my heart is now covered in protective scar tissue when it comes to football and I recovered from the drubbing quite quickly this time. But this TV is already showing signs of being unlucky. Maybe I’ll watch the World Cup up in my father in law’s spare bedroom.