Tomorrow, in fact. For two whole weeks. With Mrs WJ and the Dubettes. To somewhere where it’s not raining every bloody minute and where, even if it does rain, it’ll be warm rain. And where it’s someone’s else’s problem (nay, their job) to do the cooking and the cleaning and all the rest. For two whole weeks (that bit was worth repeating).

Those of you with on-board diaries will, of course, have clocked that this period of indolence is set to end on Saturday the 12th. It is – our flight back is due to land up the road at Collinstown just shy of midnight on that Day of Marching – which should leave me with enough time for a quick kip and then an equally quick dash across the country for the throw-in at McHale Park.

I’ll be away for most of the build-up to the Connacht final but, sad fool that I am (though I’m blaming it on self-employment), I will have the laptop with me and the hotel apparently has broadband. So, like the Provos (only with a suntan), I won’t have gone away completely, you know, though I think that, mentally at least, I’ll be well tuned out. For two whole weeks …