At this time of year I get out the heavy, orange Le Creuset pan given to me in 1984 and reach for the chopping board, the tin opener and a bottle of red wine.
If I had a thousand bucks for every time I have been told or, more usually, read that stock-picking is a mugs’ game and a low cost tracker fund will, in the long run outperform stock picking.
While in many spheres electronic communication is convenient and saves paper, sometimes the old fashioned way works better. I like receiving newspapers and magazines, Wooster Sauce and The List in hard copy.
Next time my sister pops into The Wine House in Trim – it’s temptingly close to the cathedral – I hope she picks up a bottle or two of St Patrick’s Extra Dry Gin.
Earlier this year I thinned out my filing. One disposal, written in my mother’s hand on Barmeath writing paper, listed my childhood vaccinations. Except for blogging purposes, surely I could not need that?
A few years ago a friend’s son thought the future lay in coconut milk. It didn’t, at least for him. He picked himself up, dusted himself down and started all over again. If I remember I’ll tell you what he’s doing now at the end of this.