I am nothing if not a creature of habit. In many ways this has its advantages. Things follow a fairly structured and preordained path, I generally know what I should be doing, when and how I should be doing it. Routine is comforting, it keeps me occupied and it gives structure to my otherwise feckless and directionless existence. It does however have its disadvantages. Some of these are obvious: that the routine may lull me into a rut from which I cannot escape, or that should someone decided that it’s high time to have me assassinated the strictly regimented framework of my life will make it a laughably easy thing to achieve. The greatest disadvantage I’ve found to it comes more from personal failing, the times where the routine has holes and gaps, places where it is incomplete. When the weekend finally rolls around and these holes are most abundant, it all tends to go to pieces. At no time is this more evident than it is on a Sunday afternoon.