Monday, 17th January

I'm off on a Monday. Always. There's a certain satisfaction in being off on that one day, when other people are begrugingly heading to work. I can go out on a Sunday, drink enough to kill a small horse or stay up until silly o'clock, and the worst thing I have to do is lie in bed wondering which way the bus went that hit me.

Waking up this morning, I realised something was wrong. Luckily, I didn't realise for too long- I had an appointment 15 miles away in 30 minutes. My moisturiser time was seriously compromised. Setting an alarm is obviously a stretch too far for your modern, Blackberry toting man. And me.

Get in car. Set music to volume 40 (Foo Fighters, Nothing Left To Lose album) and, finally, adjust mood to suit. This morning was a combination of rushed angst at being late and a desire to music the day away. What's not to like in that? There's a massive pleasure in piloting the LRB (Little Red Bastard- Citroen C1) on these occasions. It's got less power than Burkino Faso on the UN Security Council, less creature comforts than a night out being attacked by a group of angry students and the windows aren't even electric. It's like a car equivalent of a run down council house. But fucking hell, it's got character. Not as much as the Fonz, but enough to say you like it.

So it's me and the LRB, Penrith bound, Foo Fighters setting the world to rights, being not very Wayne's World but an awful lot Easy Rider. Just how I like it.

Penrith out of the way, and it's head back to Appleby. Or so I thought. The river Eamont runs alongside the A66 and it's a bit angry. Angry enough to have escaped the banks and be heading for anywhere but down the path it's supposed to, like some rebelling middle aged father bonking the 20 something barmaid, just because he bloody well can.

So what do I do?

Turn around and follow it back upstream, that's what. Ullswater, fathering the Eamont as it does, is a 'bit' high. As in the Road Closed signs are out and the road is about 10 inches from requiring the use of a yacht to navigate. Feels a bit naughty, but then it's just a Road Closed sign. It's not as if I'm in the frame for buggering Raul Moat or something. The Lakes in winter, especially on a closed road on a Monday morning, are a special delight. The sun's out, the hills are soaking wet and saturated with a colour you only see once in a while, the lake is high but not mighty; calm and settled in the valley like a mildly ruffled duvet.

Ullswater, Kirkstone, Ambleside, Wrynose, Hardknott. All the places that affirm life. You realise that this is all above any potential god. It's better than that- it's 100% non judgemental, natural and free from additives (well, except from the odd luminous octaganarian with walking poles and Land Rovers). If you don't like what you see in the Lakes, you're either missing humanity or you're David Blunkett.

Music, the scenery and the sense of place all go together so well. By this time there's a smattering of Jeff Buckly adorning the CD player and the clarity from feeling so close to such a wonderful place is as good as any adrenaline rush I can think of, just short of full on, no holds barred sex, I suppose.

So the return to Penrith, hunger in hand, was less than ideal.

KFC, home of grease laden fettered chicken related produce, is usually a reliable source of hunger fulfilment. Not today. For some reason, the management decided to employ someone I can only describe as a 'useless silly fat wanker'. This overleaden fat pleb is not only travelling at the speed of spud, but he's also about as attentive as a dead bat.

Mr KFC employee- if you're reading this (assuming you're not eating at the moment, of course), I do not expect you to put my food on a tray and give it to a 5' 4" balding man and his ugly wife, let them walk half way across the restaurant sneezing over it, only for you to realise you've been a bigger retard than your father and retrieve said food and put it into my fucking bag. I will not eat it. For you to put the excess back into the food lamp infested chicken coop of death for other people to get ill from, was unforgivable. That you were surprised that I asked you for my money back is only slightly less puzzling than the fact I had to ask twice.

So, in short, fuck you, fatty.

Anyway...

The stress of such a situation is easily relieved, in this case by the small marvel that is the Spar microwave meal. Seven minutes in the microwave is infinately less bothering than watching KFC Whale Boy juggle death chicken before my eyes.

I sit here writing this after an hour or two relaxing and recovering from the experience, in the company of friends in the local hostelry. Today my heart goes out to a close friend who's dealing with a tough situation he doesn't need right now. You know who you are and you know I'm there.

Keep well.