Boots on the Ground

One of my last chances to be an official Lazy Bugger so I did that. I woke up at 1030 even though the lorries of the world had united outside my bedroom window for a rally and the Roadsweepers Of Pompey had their rival AGM: the pavement is as clean as a Japanese girl you could eat your dinner off.
I was offered another bite at the cherry bomb that is the Explosion Museum but turned it down, and even objected to having to slog the few hundred yards to the local post office. But we did buy bacon and black pudding and eggs so I see a decent breakfast on the drizzling horizon of my last free weekend.
Then we petered out into apathy and I played Minecraft while he catalogued his bullet collection, not kidding.
Finally we pumped up the little football and did kick-to-each-other in the park. There was a strong side wind so we elected to use the empty tennis courts instead, so we couldn't lose the ball. Problem is, I throw the ball up into the air in a pass-to-myself ready for the kick over the net - and it gets blown sideways and I wait for it to bounce too much and I end up having to retrieve my own lob. I always pull this face, do you?
This game went on forever and the most hits in a row we managed over the tennis net was 4. We both got tired feet but it did qualify as the kickabout exercise I demanded. Jof bought watermelon slices to share but I don't share.
Pops was out all day so I could only snap and crackle. BensMum hooted at me but it's not the same.