A complicated journey from the sitting room to my car - Dear Diary, It's a Tuesday night, and I'd normally be thinking about going to bed right now. But I'm off tomorrow morning because I'm covering a council meeting on Thursday, which is when I'm usually off.
So I'm going to seize the moment by staying up and watching Netflix.
But to do so, I'll need earphones, or else I'll keep the rest of the house awake.
That shouldn't be a problem. The earphones are in my car.
I open the front door of my house and see that it's raining. That's disappointing because I'm wearing socks, and they'll get wet if I go outside. So now I need to walk all the way to my bedroom to get my shoes.
I'm lazy tonight, so when I get to my room I stupidly decide not to stick my feet all the way into my shoes. Now I'm walking back to the front door, ruining the back of my half-on shoes, and making far more noise than I have to. It's taking longer as well, which is bad because I left the front door open, and midges have been flying into the house while they've had a chance.
This is going badly.
I decide to make a shape, and I put my shoes on properly, all the while thinking about what an idiot I was not to have done that to begin with.
After all that, I find that my earphones are not in the car. That's because I remember that they're in the pocket of my puffy maroon rain jacket, which I hung on the back of a chair in the kitchen after I got home.
But now I'm checking the pockets of my coat, and the earphones aren't there either. I clearly left them at work. I'm now going to bed after all.
Dear Diary - It's Wednesday night, but my mind has jumped ahead to Thursday. That's because I've picked out a mug to bring to work with me tomorrow.
I've been relatively unaffected by the ongoing pandemic, so the nadir of the new COVID-induced normal was, for me, the removal of crockery and cutlery from our workplace. We were all given flasks to soften the blow, but it's been bothering me ever since, truth be told.
Now don't get me wrong: I'm grateful for my flask. It's white - a plain colour, and plain is good - and our names are written near the base. I wouldn't normally go for that kind of thing myself, but the font is very small, so it's acceptable in my view.
My name is spelled correctly too, and when your name is Tadhg, you can't take that kind of thing for granted.
But I'm very picky about what mugs I drink coffee or tea from.
And for all its positive traits, this flask is not a mug and it never will be. I'll never feel comfortable drinking coffee or tea from it.
I've already put my selected mug in the car so that I won't forget to bring it with me in the morning.
I picked this one because it's white and it has a fine strong handle.
It's the same width the whole way up, unlike some of those modern tulip-shaped mugs you'd see the odd time. In some places they take the Mick entirely and serve your tea in what is, effectively, a bowl with a handle.
I really like this mug. There's nothing written on it. It has no floral patterns. No stupid motivational messages. It's crockery as crockery was meant to be.
Whoever crafted this thing was after my heart - and they've got it, too.
Dear Diary - I brought my mug into the office today.
I'm just after attending a Council meeting in Killarney, so it's lunchtime before I get to Tralee, and by the time I've parked up and am ready to take my mug from the car to the office, my excitement turns to fear. I hadn't thought of how silly I'll look carrying a mug around town.
It took two minutes to walk from the car park to the office, but it felt longer. I was waiting for the insults. I passed a group of school kids and I was certain they'd make fun of my mug. 'Mugman' they'd call me, and then I'd be known around Tralee forever as Mugman. You know the way nicknames do stick.
But that didn't happen. I wasn't called Mugman, or any other derogatory names. I have made it to the office without taking any verbal abuse over carrying a mug around in public.
And now I'm excited again. I don't think anyone in the office noticed my mug as I walked in, but it's only a matter of time. I'll be known before long as the man who has his own mug, and it'll always be said with a kind of hushed reverence towards me 'round these parts.
But then my dreams turn to sawdust.
I head into the canteen to put some tea in my mug when I see it: there's an IKEA plate next to the sink. I know it's from IKEA because it's upside down and the owner has left the sticker on, letting me know that this plate is a product of a Swedish chain better known for its furniture.
Yes, somebody else has brought their own crockery to work. Before I did. There's nothing special about me after all.