Football is bound to crop up on this blog now and then, and today is one of those days.
This evening Torquay United lost 0-1 at Histon on a pitch more suited to my potato crop than a flowing game of football, but nonetheless thanks to the fact that they won the first leg 2-0, they will now be going to Wembley, again.
In fact it will be the club's fifth visit in 20 years, which isn't bad going, and on May 17 we will all be there to see if they can beat Cambridge and get back into the Football League.
I did the web updates, Twittering and Facebooking from the comfort of my sofa this time, watching the game on Setanta and thus avoiding an extremely long trip to Cambridgeshire and back. Bazza from down the road came up, bearing the noblest gifts of all, bottles of beer.
Younger Daughter's mate came round, too, and while Mrs H was out teaching children how to jump over hurdles and run at the same time, the rest of us watched the game.
I was terrible company, I'm afraid. I drank Bazza's Doom Bar and muttered and grumbled my way through a stressful match, occasionally banging away on the laptop keys to report a significant incident. My conversational skills left a lot to be desired, and for that I apologise to all.
After the final whistle I wrote some stuff for the paper, too, but by that time Bazza had gone home and the girls had melted away to another room. I must try to be better company when my team are playing, but it's hard. Sorry everyone.
Earlier in the day we had a stroll through Cockington. Reg made new friends and entertained the public by leaping in and out of the stream by the boardwalk in pursuit of sticks.
Two people, one of them the Mayor's official limo driver, quite independently remarked on the size of Reg's ears. The poor lad will get a complex.
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