Last of the f*cking whining

Sunday evening, (when last week ends and next starts. Nowadays almost all children are at this moment listening to their iPods, slaughtering folk on their Play Stations, texting their friends and being rude. Not that I'm jealous. I can look back on a Sunday evening when Dom and I would attend chapel, tea and then the off-license; on the way back from where we would consume a bottle of cider each in preparation for Hart to Hart and a pot noodle. Or heading off to Cleckheaton for the week in my Cortina after a Chinese Take Away on Leeds Rd), it's a barometer.