It’s been a busy little week so far but I’m hoping to put my feet up on Sunday (and possibly Monday, given the weather forecast for Augusta) and watch the world’s best golfers plot their way to a green jacket – or not.  I’m roaring for Rory but not holding out much hope and don’t have him as one of my picks; the poor man doesn’t need any extra pressure this week.

Six of us had a Zoom call on Monday to make our choices – a tenner each in the pot and the winner is whoever finishes highest – not necessarily first but looking at the sheet, surely one of us must have the champion…

Who’ll it be?  Is he on my slightly crumpled, old-fashioned spreadsheet?

On Tuesday it was off to Yorkshire, God’s own count(r)y according to some, for the wedding of Brian’s son Alex to his longtime partner Katie.  They’d chosen Spicer Manor at Ingbirchworth, just north of Penistone, not far from Sheffield, as the venue and it was an inspired decision.  The wedding itself was on Wednesday and the whole thing, meticulously organised by Katie, was a joy from start to finish.  Wishing them every happiness and thanks so much for a wonderful time.

There’s no pic of the bride and groom because they asked us not to post photos on social media (am supposing the blog sort of counts as such), so am making do with a family photo, snapped by Brian’s brother-in-law Rob, who has given me permission to use it as proof that we scrubbed up ok for the big occasion.

Brian, in the kilt, rather puts me, Mo and his sister Pam in the shade despite our best efforts.  (Don’t think I’ve quite cracked the Pammy Saunders sideways-on pose.)

On Thursday, directed by Brian, whose navigational skills are at least as eccentric as mine, I drove across the notorious Saddleworth Moor and miraculously managed to reach Manchester Airport without mishap (that came later!).  Mo and Brian were safely waved off and I set off again, sans navigator (and his phone) to return the kilt.

Despite Maureen’s careful tuition, I misinterpreted her instructions and had a little tour of north Wales before finding the right route and braving the Cheshire Oaks outlet village – bear in mind, it’s the school holidays, so this was not a trip for the faint-hearted.  I located Moss Bros and, even more surprisingly, an adjacent parking space without too much trouble and a pleasant young man called Cameron took the travel bag and said, “Would you like the socks?”

“What?” sez I.

‘The socks.  You can keep the socks if you want them.”

“Oh.  OK.  Might as well.  Thanks.”

I’m sure there are still some places (aka golf clubs) where footsies and ankle socks are frowned upon and the men have to wear knee socks if they dare to venture out in shorts.  Any offers before Brian comes back to claim them?

Almost pristine. Only one careful wearer.

I made it home to Lichfield and unloaded the car; switched on the Masters; made a cuppa; pottered about; thought about the blog; pondered a bit of weeding while the weather was good; welcomed Sue M and Alice in for a cuppa; caught up on the chat; lit the fire (it was a wee bit chilly); emptied the dishwasher; nearly started the blog; took some stuff upstairs instead – and realised I still had the kilt!!!

Aaagh.  The Scottish gear had come in two carriers, not just one and there’s a fine if you return it all late.  And what brother-in-law, Scottish or not, wants to pay for the sins (of omission) of his sister-in-law?

I rang Cameron and explained the problem.  He looked up my nearest Moss Bros and started with Birmingham New Street, then he mentioned Cannock, where there’s a newish outlet centre that was open until 2000 hours.  Hooray.  I made my way there (trying not to wonder why I hadn’t thought to return all the stuff there in the first place) and handed over the kilt, minus the caboodle – I do wish it started with a ‘k’ but you kan’t have everything…

You’ll appreciate that by this time I’m feeling a trifle fraught and weary and I still hadn’t sorted out how to get to Spurs on Saturday for the match against Brighton.  You see, I’d called in at Lichfield Trent Valley station,  where there’s a very helpful woman in the ticket office and she’d confirmed that there’ll be a lot of buses over the Easter period but not many trains, so that derailed the travel plans.

Regular readers will be interested (!) to learn that Essie, a fellow Spurs tragic and I will be trying a new route this weekend, via Bedford and, fear not, you’ll hear all about it.

Watching the England Lionesses play Brazil at Wembley (I couldn’t face watching Rory’s traditional first-round struggles at Augusta as Grand Slam hopes weigh heavier and heavier – they’ll probably have to change the date for him to win), I realised that I’d seen quite a few of these players up close at the Bescot – 3,000 or so spectators as opposed to 80,000.  Who needs a season ticket at Spurs when you can watch some of the world’s best close up for a fraction of the price and hardly any travel hassle at all…

Apparently there are still some men who prefer watching paint dry to watching women play football but each to his own antediluvian attitude.  All we have to do now is improve the facilities.  Come to think of it, a lick of paint would be a start.

Friendly service but £12 is a bit steep for two tea bags and a couple of teaspoons of Maxwell House. Suppose it costs a lot to boil the water.  Chelsea beat the Villa 3-nil.