“Here we go – deliver as many as you can,” offers the Village Shop Man.

I have a job!!! It is voluntary work for the Village Shop. I have always thought that I would do some service in the community, even on top of the good works I do at the Snooker Club. My mother helps the RNLI, and even John Twonil drives the Community Bus, although I am not going to write about that any more as he got cross because I have never mentioned the at least five or six times when he has been out in it and it has not been stolen and the police called.

I walk round the Village, delivering leaflets.

I had forgotten quite how nice it is to go for a walk. Delivering leaflets is a refreshingly mindless pastime; the satisfaction of doing a good deed for the Village Shop people is matched only by the satisfaction of the ‘clunk’ of a letterbox as another leaflet goes down. Plus you get to nose around peoples’ gardens, especially if the letterbox is not immediately visible which gives you the excuse to go round the back. There are some cottages that I didn’t even know existed, and really terrible three-piece suites in some living rooms. I stroll around with a song in my heart, doing my good turn.

It starts to sleet.

Going for a walk in the sleet is invigorating. I push a soggy leaflet through another letterbox. The next cottage does not have a visible means of delivery, but there is a pheasant hanging up on the back gate, so I tuck it into that. Then up the track that leads across the field opposite the farm.

It is snowing very hard now.

It really is immensely enjoyable walking around in such conditions, having been sent out to deliver leaflets without being supplied with the appropriate footwear by my employer. But what can I do? I would not claim against the Village Shop, and let some dodgy ‘claims company’ take a cut of my compensation.

I leave the rest of the leaflets at Eddie’s, who has promised to help me out. The Village Shop man gives me two jars of pickle. Later on, I overhear two ladies in the Post Office discussing my leafleting activities. I am full of pride.

“Mmmphhmumphwhassat?” mutters the LTLP from under the duvet.

“Mmmphhubhubhubrrrtextmessage,” I reply sleepily.

It is about half past eleven at night, and I have been asleep for almost two hours. I do not have late nights now, having a Toddler, and I sleep very lightly. The quiet ‘beep’ from downstairs has woken me up.

I turn over to resume sleep.

My mobile phone rings, the silence of the night amplifying the tiny sound that’s set to be the noise of a telephone ringing, as I am not a wanker. I listen to it for a couple of rings before deciding that it might be important, and I trudge off down the stairs to find out who it is. By the time that I find my phone, the ringing has stopped.

I carry the phone upstairs. There are two text messages, the most recent one being from the voicemail service. The earlier message is from Big A. The Snooker Club has won 4-1.

4-1!!! This is a bit unprecedented. I play for the worst snooker club in Britain, a club that did actually go a decade without winning a single match. If Roy Castle was still alive we would have been on ‘Record Breakers’ alongside some students who want to spend five weeks push dried peas round their garage with their noses. 4-1.

In a way, I am a bit sad about this. All the others have been practicing constantly and have got better, and I feel that something has been lost from the club. It is far more honorable to be really, really bad at something rather than just being average, which is why I do not understand all the current Eurovision stuff. Nevertheless I was quite happy to be first reserve for this match.

I check my voicemail message. It is from five drunk people in a car park, singing ‘Four One to the Snooker Club’ to the tune of ‘Go West’ by the Village People. The noise blares from the phone.

“What the hell’s that?”

“It’s five drunk people singing ‘Four One to the Snooker Club’,” I explain, climbing blearily back into bed. “To the tune of ‘Go West’ by the Village People.”

“Oh,” she replies.

We drift back off, and I practice some shots in my sleep.