Christmas Day started with a purring cat and closed with a snoring wife.
In-between and there was running, walking and drinking.
I managed a short Christmas morning run, despite still trying to shake off a cold.
I passed one other lone runner on the way out of Wivenhoe.
...I greeted him with.
He pulled a greenie into the hedgerow and carried on running.
The roads were icy at 8am with a light frost. You'd be hard pushed to call it a traditional Christmas morning, but the crispness and the estuary sunlight was there to be savoured.
A wash and brush up back at base, and then Anna and I headed off on a walk - in the exact same direction that I ran an hour earlier.
We had ambitious plans of Wivenhoe Wood, over to the University, a romantic walk by the Lakes and then back along the estuary.
It was all going so well until the ever-expanding University building project fenced us in.
Being stuck underneath the bloody podia on Christmas Day morning is not an experience that I would like to repeat.
The Student Union bar on Christmas Day became an option for about half a second.
We were guided out of the maze by bizarrely a BONKERS lone trumpeter who was sitting by the Lakes and blowing his own horn, so to speak.
I was too tired on the return home to even take my wellies off. It wasn't even midday.
A jazz pre-luncheon followed. Art Blakey and his Messengers passed away the Moanin' hour as I did a bit of photo publishing.
And then it was:
The Greyhound was ACE.
All of the pre and post effort at home was taken away with a six (SIX) course meal. The service was superb, the company was charming.
Who knew that Brussels can steal the show when mixed in with bacon?
Anna even managed to swipe half the cheese board in her handbag.
And then it was all about the NBA for the evening entertainment.
I still don't get why or how the Americans get to stage high profile NBA ball games on Christmas afternoon. But it's got to be better than the crap served up on the British channels.
Have a good one.