Coastalblog

If you cast your mind back to the start of the year, you will note that I made a bit of a to-do about why I set myself a bunch of arbitrary goals and targets. I mounted a relatively spirited defence of what could seem to the less charitable observer to be either a box ticking exercise or an act of monstrous self-aggrandisement, well, as spirited as my jaded and haggard middle-aged sensibilities can manage. And so I thought it high time to swing by these parts and offer further explanation as to the point of these various tasks. The eagle eyed amongst you will note that, after a flying start, the reading of books seems to have ground to a halt. Not actually the case, but unfortunately for getting the numbers up, one of my Christmas presents was Paul Auster's 4321, which clocks in at a thousand pages, nearly done, (and a review will be up shortly), so it's probably a bit too early to draw any conclusions about that. The birds though, goodness me. There's a lot to say abou

I am not a man blessed with a great deal of what might be termed free time. I'm phrasing this carefully because I'm equally not a man who lives an onerous life. I work a 50 hour week, which, whilst a fair whack, also includes a lot of time stood about drinking coffee, writing menus and, most of the rest of the time, banging out plates of food, a process I find immensely enjoyable. Time at home is divided largely between hanging out with my children, again, not a task one could reasonably class as a bind; housework, which, as it comes under the banner of keeping everything on an even keel is generally something I approach zestily (and in the chastening knowledge that I maybe do about 30% of it, so best not to whinge, eh) and, every once in a while, doing a spot of this sort of thing. Yes, dear reader. I fit you in when I can. I know this comes as a shock, and I'm sorry I had to tell you like this, but really, you must have known. Like an adulterous husband desperate to be