Jonny McCambridge: The return of tales from the silly season - Big Jim from Corrie and late-night football viewing
By the time you are reading this, all being well, I will be abroad on holiday. The annual ordeal of getting burnt and eaten by mosquitoes is this year given a novel twist in that I am spending thousands of pounds I don't have to go somewhere where it is forecast to be not as hot and not as dry as back home.
Leaving that aside, another burgeoning summer habit is that I fill this page with titbits of humour and happenstance to fill the void until I return from travelling and am once again able to give full attention to entertaining you with details of my general social incompetence.
There is, of course, an inherent risk that this Blue Peter style 'here's one I prepared earlier' approach could lead to a general lack of topicality in the contents.
However, given that this page is now to be found, if it can be found at all, after the pigeon racing results in the paper, I'm not sure that it much matters.
With that in mind, let me proudly announce the return by popular demand (ahem) of Tales From The Silly Season.
The Twelfth: Turning up with my video gear at a Twelfth of July parade creates the usual buzz of attention.
I find a space on the main road in the village and set up the camera. I can see a group of women close by watching and discussing my activity.
It occurs to me that it is entirely plausible that they might recognise me and are potentially fans of the content of this page.
I smile and nod in their direction as they continue with their conspiratorial conversation.
Two of the women move in my direction. I flex the fingers of my writing hand in anticipation of possibly having to sign my first ever autograph.
“Hey mister," they begin. “Are you able to introduce us to Big Jim McDonald from Corrie?”
The World Cup: I have seen less of this World Cup than any before due to the late hour of the matches.
Time and again I have been faced with the conundrum of whether to stay up or go to bed.
Invariably, I have made the wrong decision.
I missed Argentina's extra time win over Cape Verde, Belgium's incredible comeback against Senegal and all the drama of England's heroics against Mexico in the Azteca Stadium. Argentina's Messi-inspired recovery from two down to beat Egypt also passed me by.
Conversely, I sat up to watch England's ponderous 0-0 draw with Ghana and the brutal tactics of Paraguay as they were eliminated by France in an ugly, joyless game.
I have clearly become the kiss of death and my WhatsApp friends now encourage me to go to bed early each night so they can see some decent football.
I am undeterred.
The England v Norway quarter final is on a Saturday night and I do not have to work the next day.
I settle down on the sofa with a bottle of beer and a giant bag of crisps for what will surely be a night of gripping sporting drama.
My son shakes me awake in the same spot several hours later with saliva dribbling down my chin.
Apparently, England won 2-1.
Is the dishwasher sentient? It is difficult to get over to sleep at night in this heat.
This makes it all the more annoying when my wife wakens me in bed to tell me she thinks the smoke alarm is going off and can I check.
Reassured by her determined actions in the case of an emergency, I go downstairs.
It is not the smoke alarm, but instead the dishwasher which is emitting a sharp beeping sound.
I have been having trouble with the appliance for some time; it is not operating as it should, but instead seems to have developed a rogue streak in that it starts washing at times of its own choosing.
I hit the 'off' button but the sound persists.
I try several more times with no effect. Eventually I have to turn the dishwasher off at the mains switch. I go back to bed troubled.
The next day I am still struggling to get it to work and am reduced to washing some dishes by hand in the sink.
Over dinner I discuss with my wife that we may need to buy a new dishwasher.
At that very moment, untouched by hand, the appliance grumpily bubbles to life and begins a washing cycle.
The timing is surely coincidental. However, just in case, my wife and I continue the conversation in another room.
Bin Day: Monday is bin day in our street. I am usually ruthlessly efficient with the bin-emptying routine with the receptacles wheeled out early in advance on Sunday evening.
This week I especially do not want to miss the lorry as we will be abroad for a period and I don't want the bins to be festering full of rubbish when we are away.
It is very, very early on a Saturday morning when my wife shakes me awake (notice the trend?).
“I think the bin lorry is here.”
A lot of things can go through the mind in a short period of time.
Our bin day is Monday. This is Saturday. But this coming Monday is a bank holiday. The bins are always collected early in advance of a public holiday.
I jump from the bed and pull my wife's dressing gown around me.
“Where are they now?" I ask.
“I think you're too late, they're heading away down the road.”
I am not to be so easily defeated. I race down the stairs and into the back yard.
I grab the handle of the brown bin in one hand and the green bin in the other and run to the kerb.
I can just about the see bin lorry turning the corner at the bottom of the road.
With bins in trail, I chase after it.
"Come back! Come back! I'm here!”