Standing outside the pub on Friday night, staring up at a bright crescent moon with Venus twinkling directly beneath it, I realised that I’d forgotten to look out for the sunset earlier.

One of the benefits of the cloud of volcanic ash allegedly covering the country, along with a decrease in aircraft pollution and the lessons that we can get along without exotic fruits and foreign holidays, is the prospect of spectacular sunsets.

Never afraid to demonstrate my ignorance I wondered aloud to N whether the ban on flights across Europe was more panic than precaution, a decision based more on fear of blame than real danger.

‘After all,’ I said the RAF is still flying out of Waddington, ‘isn’t it.’

Apparently not. Even the AWACS is grounded.

‘But what about our protection from a sneak attack?’ I recalled the Sunday morning attack on Pearl Harbour and that surprise gift to Israel from the Arabs on Yom Kippur.

‘I don’t think there’s much danger from the Russians,’ said N. They’ve got enough troubles of their own.’

‘To hell with the Russians. I’m worried about the French.’

Saturday evening, just before 8 pm, there she was, a huge, bright, red sun, sinking beneath the roofs as I walked westward to the pub. Truly magnificent. Thank you Iceland. What we we need now is our money back and all is forgiven.

The pub was packed. It’s an ordeal that has to be endured until about 9.30 when, having ‘pre-loaded’ on cheap Wetherspoon’s lager, most customers stagger off to the city’s ‘clubs’ and other knocking-shops.

Outside on the smoking patio, the sun had set and there was the moon again, WNW I calculated, with Venus a lot further northward.

A gaggle of middle-aged women sat in a circle, cackling and honking. They seemed to have dressed in the belief that attractiveness is directly linked to the display of bare flesh. Not true when it reveals arms, according to GY, like those of Geoff Capes.

With them was a one solitary male, surrounded, as the same friend said, like Custer.

At the bar I stood next to a guy who was ordering a long list of ciders, lagers and shorts. I couldn’t be sure whether he was having trouble with the language – not unusual in Lincoln these days – or just drunk. When he started telling the barmaid how beautiful she was I decided ungallantly on the latter. Then he put his arm around me which I hope confirmed that decision. Nevertheless, I shall make a point of getting my hair cut on Monday.

It was a pretty quiet evening after that. I learned about the hallucinogenic effects of nutmeg. I wonder if, like aspirins and glue, there’s a limit on how much you can buy at a time.

A woman caught my eye. She was quite good-looking, I thought, but perhaps that was merely the lateness of the hour. Just an excuse for inaction. Why have I become so lazy?

G was outside talking to a woman, whose daughter is about to go out with the army to Afghanistan. I thought his little lecture on improvements to IED’s was somewhat tactless, but it did remind me of how the Taleban throw a party. There’s no dancing, no music and no booze, but they play a bloody exciting game of pass-the-parcel.