I was full of the joys of spring at the weekend - then I woke up! The thing that soured my break was viewing the front page of the South Wales Egg Cup after two 14-hour shifts in a row.
I had designed the page and written the headlines, re-designed them and changed the headlines and checked them as much as I could. It was only in the cold light of Saturday morning that I realised I had called the golden wedding couple on the front by the wrong name!
Their name was John and Carole Sheedy and what made it worse was that I had checked the spelling of Carole. Unfortunately I called them Sweeney. D'oh!
Looking deep into my subconscious I remembered that the former press manager on the Daily Snail was called John Sweeney and somehow I had recalled that name at the crucial moment. Nothing like a mistake like that to make you feel crap about yourself.
Part two came when I went to see my wonderful football team The Gas, who drew 0-0 with Crewe and produced another performance marking them out as likely relegation fodder. Why they can't pass to players in the same shirt I can't guess.
On Saturday night Wren and I met up with Natalie 'Bob' Wilson, or cupid as she should be called. It was Nat, a former colleague of Wren's on the Celtic newspapers, who once texted me to ask if it was all right if she gave my number to her friend. The rest, as they say, is history.
Nat and her bloke Neil were down for the Cheese festival at Cardiff Castle, and Withers - who had accompanied his dad to the Rovers-Crewe game only to be delayed three hours by railway travel chaos - eventually joined us, too.
While drinking in the Cayo I spotted a bloke who looked remarkably like the Welsh Hollywood actor Rhys Ifans. Nah, I thought, can't be. Next day, there in my WoS, was an article saying he had been one of the star guests at the cheese festival. Could it be..?
From the Cayo we went to City Arms, where it was absolute chaos. Drunken students falling all over you, many of them dressed in the most bizarre fancy dress uniforms. The beer, too, was pretty rank and after wandering around Cardiff for about an hour in the early hours of Sunday morning trying to find somewhere decent to drink we finally gave up and went home.
Neil, by the way, is a Carlisle supporter and it looks like I may have to travel up there to see the Gas get pulverised in the new year.
Sunday, and I went to a wedding fair. Infact, I ended up going to two wedding fairs. This amounted to going back over the bridge to Bristol again. In all, Wren and I did the same journey five times at the weekend.
The first fair was just down the road from her flat, but there wasn't much to see though I did have to pull her away from the chocolate fountain. Got me thinking about vodka fountains. Then I remembered the Prince of Darkness would be there and that the sight of him slumped under said fountain with his mouth open was too much to take.
The second one was at the Marriot on College Green and was quite fun. There were some very flashy cake makers, invitation designers and bridesmaid's dress sales people. And there was a catwalk show, too. Still haven't got a clue what myself and the Wonderful One are going to wear, though. Apparently, according to my lady love, my Bristol Rovers top is a definite no-no.
Plenty of ideas to work on, though.
We followed that with a trip to the lush Bristol Carvery in Cribbs Causeway for a massive meal and blobbed out in front of the Rom-Com Hitch on Sunday night at my gaff.
Last night it was a couple of beers with the Wonderful One after work and then a ready meal of Beef Bourgoinon (quite nice really) with brown rice when I got home.
Today Wren sent me a little joke I will share with the rest of you...
A passer-by noticed an old lady sitting on her front step, so he walked up to her and said, "I couldn't help noticing how happy you look... what is your secret?"
"I smoke ten cigars a day," she said. "And, before I go to bed, I smoke a nice big joint. Apart from that, I drink a whole bottle of Jack Daniels every week, and eat only junk food. On weekends, I pop pills, get laid, and do no exercise at all."
"That is absolutely amazing!" said the passer-by. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-four!" she said.
That explains why the little bowling ball, Bramwell, keeps claiming he is 28 - he probably is. Ignore the getting laid bit, though, that's very unlikely, chum!