So there I was, happily sauntering along through Summerhill, just about to cross the border into Ballybough, en route to Santry and my weekly audience with Her Holiness, The Kilkenny Lady.

I had just gotten off the blower, following a most pleasing catch up with Mister Ethiopia.

It was good to hear from him again.

And then it happened.

Crossing a sideroad, my left kneecap, all of a most painful suddenness, found itself in severe disagreement with a lamppost.

Needless to say, there was only ever going to be one winner in this scenario.

In all my years of dispute with bollards, lampposts, concrete pillars and other such Godforsaken constructions, My Good Self has yet to emerge victorious in any of these encounters.

Dearie me.

Over in the world of chess, it would appear that the fluctuations of my performance levels are beginning to resemble the proverbial undergarments of a certain class of traditional female employee.

Nip and tuck with The Italian Babe, a crushing defeat to The King of Headfort and on the cusp of a second successive, stunning victory over The Prince of Pinner.

According to well placed sources, The Prince is not best pleased.

And so the search for chess consistency continues.

I feel my daily wine intake is a factor. So, should I stick with the standard four bottles a day? Maybe it’s time to bite the bullet and cut back to three? Having said all that it may well be time to up the ante to five.

My dear readers, I am in desperate need of your advice.

Consolidation continues to be the name of the game in the land of classical guitar. ‘Cavatina’ is still rolling along around the halfway mark. My playing of this tune has been heard by a couple of bodies and I can happily report that their eardrums are still functioning.

So that’s how the cookie is crumbling of this cold, slippy, January Friday.

A bientot, mes amis.