With Christmas and New Year occurring on a Thursday we’ve had a fortnight of weekends and my routine has been knocked sideways and back again.

I always have a wander round town with my wife on a Sunday.

But which was Sunday? Days melded one into another and I totally lost track.

Poor old soul, you might say. Bring back a proper week with a beginning, a middle and an end, I say.

Maria and I normally start the week with the Monday Club. On Friday we meet Wimps for a drink. Saturday we stay in and indulge in a little of what we fancy (they say it does you good).

Sunday we have a laugh with Krusty the Clown. Around that structure I have a daily walk, work in my office, and look forward to curry night which is Thursday.

Except that this week curry night has been Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

As for Sunday, I’m sure we’ve had three of them in the last four days.

Confused? I won’t be right until the middle of February. Particularly after discovering that pound shops have half price sales and slipping down a hole like Alice and ending up in another dimension full of political intrigue.

Let’s start with half price at pound shops.

“They’ll be paying you to take stuff away next,” said my wife.

It was a cold day so I went in and bought a bobble hat. I have one I got from a sports shop but I’d left it at home. A replacement thermal head covering for a quid was a bargain.

Then we slipped down the hole and ended up in the wonderland that is Huddersfield railway station to meet a friend who was visiting for the day.

She had caught the wrong train and was late which gave Maria and me time to ponder the sophistication of modern travel.

By heck, I thought, I couldn’t manage that. Buying a ticket from a machine, sticking it into another machine and watching it pop back up.

Where was the station master in a top hat and a penny slot for platform tickets? This was a reality game show without prizes and it made my head feel most peculiar. Then I realised why.

The inexpensive thermal bobble hat lacked proper gripping power. It did not firmly nestle in place around my bonce like my proper one did.

This had slowly contracted, leaving my ears behind and was now sitting on top of my head like a tea cosy.

No wonder people were looking at me funny. I was in danger of being mistaken for a mobile canteen and was surprised none of the passengers heading to and from the trains had yet asked me for a cup of Quick Brew with milk and two sugars.

Confused? So was I – and my ears were cold.

Our friend arrived and we wandered onto the icy wastes of Red Square (sorry, St George’s Square) and I wondered why Sir Harold Wilson was walking with firm stride towards the giant Christmas tree.

Had the chill got to him and he was in need of relief and the tree offered the only bit of cover?

Had it been placed by a political enemy to hide the town’s most famous son?

Was he hiding in case the Labour Party asked him to come back and lead them into the next General Election?

Well, someone should.

I tried to ask him but he thought I was a mobile canteen and asked for a Quick Brew with milk and two sugars.

Confused? So am I.