Although I’m sill not fully fighting fit, I am feeling better.

    This is good news for me but not so for the wife and mother-in-law. For twenty-four hours they have been able to watch soap operas and reality TV shows without my continuous verbal input of how dreadful they are. I keep telling them that kind of stuff contaminates both the television and their brains, only reverting to silence after a badly aimed coffee cup or ashtray whistles past my ear. You’d be amazed how many standard household objects have aerodynamic properties when thrown hard enough. 

    They’re also bloody painful when the correct trajectory is achieved.

    Even so, as I’m now on the road to recovery, I’m able to perform all manner of household tasks other than decorating. For example, the wife has allowed me to use the washing machine again. This may, at first, sound a little strange but she has good reason to be cautious.

    When I was single it was very simple to do my washing and it always ended up crisp and gleaming. Not surprising really, once a week a very nice lady came round in a van, picked up all the dirty linen and two days later it was returned pressed and ready to wear. This, and other such indulgences, stopped about 2 seconds after the wedding rings went on. But the washing still had to be done so I was made to use that strange object that looks like a refrigerator with a porthole in the front.

    The first attempt produced an entire load of shrunken pink clothing that wouldn’t fit a pygmy and caused a few choice words.

    I didn’t dare make the same mistake again.

    The second effort came out the correct size but looked like the front row of a Grateful Dead concert. Needless to say the new Mrs. Snowman wasn’t overtly happy walking around like an acid trip and raised voices once more filled the air as most of the newly psychedelic items belonged to her. It was difficult to find any difference with mine. I have some truly offensive clothing including several shirts that are visible from orbit, at least one of which should only be viewed through the kind of smoked glass you use for solar eclipses.

    As a result of this mishap Mrs. Snowman has now put masking tape around the dial of the washing machine and marked in pencil where it should be turned. A separate sheet of paper with concise instructions has also been drawn up to ensure I don’t turn the rest of her clothes into the Pink Panther’s wet dream.

    Unfortunately I’ve lost the paper.

    I have a premonition my old laundry service may be called back into action.

    Something else was also lost today.

    My previous attempt at the 2c/4c tables didn’t go well, but in comparison to today’s effort it was a shining example of poker genius.

    I put $2 into the 1c/2c tables and got over confident on pocket Jacks (that’s my excuse for some dreadful play) and quickly saw my investment disappear. I then broke the cardinal rule of poker money management and started to chase my losses.

    I switched to the 2c/4c tables and the maximum $4 buy in was duly obtained. Sadly I got into an argument with an idiot and forced myself into a raising battle with him. My A-K suited looked good pre flop and I eventually staked the whole lot. He turned 10-J off suit and hit the ten. He then had the audacity to tell me what a brilliant player he was for making such a great call. With steam rising from my ears I throw another $4 into the mix and lose to a decent player on an over pair of Queens.

    They say you should never play poker if you HALT. That is: hungry, angry, lonely or tired. If only I’d listened.

    I can’t even blame my rapidly decreasing illness so I shall not HALT tomorrow. Instead I shall be sporting, happy, intuitive and tenacious; or as it’s otherwise known…SHIT.

Starting bank:  $0