Nose, meet Mr Grindstone

Going back to work after a holiday is always something of a long dark week of the soul. I shuffle in on the first day expecting to be presented with a list of terrible blunders that have come to light in my absence, have my tie snipped off at the knot and be gently but firmly propelled back out of the door.  But somehow that didn't happen this week, and I was sufficiently busy in the first few days to not sink too deeply into desk-bound depression.  Still, the culture shock was sufficient that looking back at the studenty glory of the previous fortnight - newspapers, solo cinema trips, computer games, a couple of listless jogs, wreckless drinking - made me almost tearfully nostalgic.

I sit here now on Sunday, almost glowing with smugness having treated the missus to Nigel's cottage pie and Jamie's marmalade bread and butter pudding.  Here's the pie (note: photo has been subtly tweaked to preserve my anonymity):

Other than that, it's been a quiet weekend.  I found out that Lily Allen ripped off Akira the Don.  I found this David Cameron/Common People take-off which is pretty obvious but still funny ("He told me that his Dad was loaded/I said "mine too, we should run this country"/He said "yah"")



I also found this footballer's wag song, which also funny but utterly obscene ("I've been spit-roasted, in Grosevenor House, by the boys from Chelsea FC") so not to be watched with any elderly relatives in earshot.