Sunday 12th September

K is still away so I get up and head to Sainsbury's to do the Big Shop solo - though luckily I've been left a detailed shopping list and as such I am supremely focussed and impervious to impulse buys (except maybe that two-pack of scotch eggs), bringing the shop in way below average. K won't be pleased that I got away with a cheap one, but then she doesn't have to lug the whole lot back home on the 141 does she?

I get back and make a bit of lunch before sitting down to watch the Italian Grand Prix - which, like many Grands Prix lately starts off promisingly before settling into a predictable procession, with Lewis Hamilton's second-lap crash causing the only change between the front few rows from start to finish. I suppose no one says Formula 1 is always guaranteed to be exciting, but much like test cricket I can't help but feel that the format is flawed slightly. It's clearly aimed more at the sort of nerds that understand what car telemetry means, rather than people like me who just want to see loads of overtaking and smash-ups.

The next sporting appointment of the day is Birmingham v Liverpool on TV - which requires a visit to the Hope and Anchor. Alex pops round and we walk over to Hornsey together, with Will - legend has it - on his way later. Mike and Rick are already in attendance and both notably nursing severe hangovers from the night before. Mike stares at a poorly-chosen pint of Guinness for a while before daring to tackle it; but either steels himself or is driven to drink by the dire football on offer. The two teams play out a dreadful 0-0 draw at St. Andrews (meaning that Alex and I are deprived of the veritable goalfest we enjoyed yesterday) and we find ourselves sat in the pub with nothing else to do. I cheekily suggest a pint of the dreaded Old Rosie at the Kings Head - and am surprised to find my suggestion cheekily accepted - even by the exqusitely hungover member of our party.

We wander down to the Kings Head and take our seats and start doing increasingly unwise rounds - but fuelling that sense of naughty Sunday drinking that has presumably brought everyone else to the pub at this time. By 11pm it's definitely time to leave after a fun evening with Mike, Will and Alex - and I even find the time to call K in Dorset to warn her and her younger brother of the dangers of Strong Cider. She, predictably, finds this very funny.