I blame the sneakers. I ought to have known it was a mistake to buy white ones. (What an awful word ‘sneakers’ is! In my youth we had plimsolls, spikes for athletics, and soccer or rugby boots, but never ‘sneakers’. Not even my friends shod in thick crepe-soled shoes called ‘brothel-creepers’ would have worn something as underhand as a pair of ‘sneakers’.)

The word ‘blog’ certainly looks like it belongs in an IKEA catalogue — somewhere close to skubb, grov and krog — but it isn’t a Swedish word. Or perhaps I should say it’s as much a Swedish word as an English one. Like ‘okay’, it’s become universal.

Swiss Chalet is a well known Canadian restaurant chain specialising in spit-roasted chicken. Their meals are modestly priced and somewhat unimaginative — good, basic, wholesome fare. Not the place to impress an important client, but ideal for Mother’s Day. MacDonalds for grown-ups, they used to call it. Let me say that I generally enjoy lunch there, even though it rarely consists of more than a Chalet soup and salad nowadays. This week I ordered a pot of tea with my soup and salad. The mug was badly stained inside, and had something hard stuck on the handle. I used my thumbnail to remove the fleck of what I took to…