Whatever that means
In spite of measly pitches, squeaky bairns on one side and hack-coughing smoker on the other we seem to sleep late and then there’s the slow process of walking the mutt, boiling up the coffee and cooking breakfast. God knows what we did but it would have involved driving somewhere, walking, throwing sticks etc.
Oh yes, a mooch around nearby Haltwhistle, home of Mr George’s Museum of Time, which is either touchingly amateurish or disastrously rubbish. Having parted with the £7.50 and been conned out of £20 in the shop I’m still undecided. It leaves me the same way as the Secret Bunker.