Although business ticked over during the weeks following Christmas, I had quite a lot of free time. Now things are getting busier so once more Displacement Activity can fulfil its function of preventing me doing anything until the optimum moment - i.e., the last one.

The first interesting thing to report is that I've been gathering more evidence for my soon-to-be-published paper People in Richmond, North Yorks: The Rudest, Stupidest Fuckers In Britain. As you may know, every now and then I like to make a break in my working day by enjoying a pub lunch while reading a good book. This, of course, is pleasant in itself; even more pleasant, though, is reflecting on the fact that while I'm sitting in front of a nice warm fire enjoying lunch in peaceful surroundings, Dave, Furball, Telf and everybody else I used to work with are running around shoving buns into their mouths while trying to mark the work they set three months ago because some arsey, backward little shit in the third form has complained to his ugly mother.

I used to go to Wetherspoons to relish this sensation, but frankly it's a bit plasticky, and while the beer is excellent the chips have got to be the worst I've ever tasted. So I thought I'd head for the market square and give the Bishop Blaize a try. The Bishop Blaize is one of those Richmond pubs that Niall always mutters dark warnings about. In fact, I was having a drink with him in the Turf (excellent pub) just the other night when he lapsed into silence, and, after a few moments of wearing his characteristic voyaging-through-strange-seas-of-thought-alone furrowed brow, grimly pronounced that he'd heard the Bishop Blaize was getting worse.

He didn't specify in what way it was going downhill, so I thought I may as well try my luck, especially as there is a large, colourful chalkboard outside advertising the culinary delights to be enjoyed within. The interior was pleasant, and a good fire was going. Behind the counter was the requisite fat, surly barmaid of the type you find staffing every pub in town. The conversation went like this:

Me: I'll have a pint of Cameron's, please.

[Note to Dave, Furball, Telf et al: I can enjoy an alcoholic beverage with my lunch, and then go home for a nice sleep afterwards. Mmmmmm.]

Fat, Surly Barmaid:: Anything else?

Me: Yeah, I'd like to order some food, please.

FSB: We're not doing food. It's Tuesday.

Me: But there's a big sign outside saying...

FSB: But it's Tuesday.

I swear there's a bylaw in this town prohibiting the sale of certain foods on certain days. Back in 2001 three of us - me, TLMH and Rachel - were refused chips in the Black Horse '..because it's Sunday'. In neither that case, nor this, did the FSB (yes, they have one at the Black Horse, too) feel the need to offer any further explanation.

So much for the Bishop Blaize. I went back to Wetherspoons, where I had a great pint of Pedigree and a burger accompanied by a tiny number of awful, lukewarm chips - all brought to my table by a fat, surly waitress who at least had the good grace not to say anything as she thumped it down in front of me.