We’ve finished the day with curry and film night, and I type this with the family in bed, the fire crackling softly, and Casino Royale on the box.  It’s been a great day. It started with two hours of sixty kids learning Christmas carols in a brass band, a glorious sound that ensures that “Christians, Awake!” is superfluous as nobody of any denomination could possibly be resting.

I then had a day with The Boy.

The first plus was a magnificent find: a shop with every type of splendid gentlemanly pyjamas in dinosaurs, helicopters, snowmen, and stars.  But the discovery in that was a great tweed jacket, elbow patches and all, picked by a chap who wants to look like his Dad.  Of course it’s not going to last into his teenage years, but while it does I’m enjoying it without compare.

He picked up his new spectacles, horn-rimmed and studious, and now oscillates between looking achingly cute and far too old-looking for my little boy.

We went to Cardiff Market, said hello to the guys who run the vintage menswear outfit, reviewed pigs’ heads and bought a magnificent pork pie for our breakfast tomorrow, selected pick ‘n’mix, and paid our compliments to Horace The Big Fish, this week’s large catch who surprisingly has  lived constantly in the fish stall, an aquatic version of Trigger’s Broom, since The Boy was a toddler.

We finished in the pub.  The Old Arcade, finest rugby pub in the world, where Dad’s pint of Dark and The Boy’s orange juice are served and consumed with similarly gentlemanly companionship.  Sat at the end of the bar, he shot the breeze with Irish and French fans, explained that he knows Sam (Warburton) well and that he plays rugby with his Dad and wins every time.

It’s the little things, isn’t it.