Crack open the champers for I hear the death rattle of August. Tomorrow begins September and the onslaught of my absolute favourite time of year - Autumn. The smokey air, the bulging hedgerows, the wine, the game, jumpers, boots, leaves! Oh I am getting myself into a state just thinking about letting my onions sweat. The sun has been nice on several occasions and I did enjoy doing suduko on Eastbourne beach whilst mint choc chip dribbled down my arm, but I've had quite enough now thankyou.

Things look nicer in fresh clean light. I always think summer is like American TV clips on English telly. I think it is something to do with the NTSC system but it looks too gaudy and soft. Autumn is crisp like a sixties films - Breakfast at Tiffany's, Alfie, you get my drift. No, let the dark nights draw in....Autumn days when the grass is jewelled.

I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to start waving a placard and burning my bra a bit but I'm more than a bit ticked off at the BBC. Last night I joined the ladyfriend on the sofa who was watching that awful Ricky Gervais 'comedian' - I use that word in it loosest sense (am I the only person not to find him funny?) Anyway, I thought I'd stepped back into the seventies. Have the BBC gone so far with political correctness that they are coming out the other side?

What little of his programme I saw centered around making light of a gay man who was played in a camp stereotypical way. It pissed me off but I thought 'whatever' that's what straight people are comfortable with, it's how they like gay people on tv, non threatening, feminine (Graham Norton, Dale Winton etc).

After the programme, the Catherine Tate Show came on. In three sketches being gay was the butt of the joke. "Gay Boy" was one of them. I thought to myself, 'hang on a minute'. If these jokes were about being black, handicapped or women they wouldn't get an airing let alone be on prime time tv. I half expected the Black and White Minstrel Show to come on next! Why is it acceptable to prolong such outmoded humour? Will and Grace can do it without being offensive.

The irony of it all is, the funniest programme on tv was the one after all that drivel - "Absolute Power" which stars Stephen Fry, an out gay man who has never had to limp his wrist, refer to 'hiding sausages' or camp it up to appear on the BBC. Hmmm....

I may have to go and lie down in a darkened room but I fancy going to France. Not just a booze cruise which I believe is an ideal way to pop over and annoy the Frenchies with alcohol fuelled behaviour, blue language and the sacking of their supermarkets (why do we buy such big boxes of washing powder?)

No, I fancy exploring the Dordogne. I've been watching that Rick Stein on another BBC jolly and I must say he does paint a pretty picture. It's pretty villages are preserved in aspic and there is medieval architecture aplenty.

I'm sure Mr Stein is glossing over the rum side of France and giving it a bit of an H E bates makeover, he is quite possibly taking a kick-back from the French tourist board but he's doing a very good job. The ladyfriend and I are hooked. We fancy sinking our teeth into the arse of a five year old cow and washing it down with fine wine bought for 'pennies'. We'd best get a move on though, book the 2CV before the frogs lose their EU grants!

One of the highlights of the year has begun for the Ladyfriend and I. As the seasons begin to bump into one another, like two bobbing boats in a harbour, as Summer gently gives way to autumn, Saturday night tv gets good.

Ofcourse I say that with my tongue firmly wedged into my cheek. We all know that the only thing truly worth watching on a Saturday night is an ambulance which has turned up a few doors down the street (this happened this weekend by the way - I was up and down like a bride's nightie)

Saturday nights are now X Factor nights. There is nothing more entertaining than watching common people trying to make their dream come true. The first episode was tv heaven. A big ginger girl (when I say big - I mean big) was humiliated beyond all realms of decency. It was magic. She failed the xfactor audition and wept inconsolably whilst clutching a picture of two children which I presumed to be hers. She was afterall 18 and if they weren't hers she was leaving it a bit late.

Her family pleaded on their knees for the judges to accept her on their fast track to super stardom. They were denied. There were tears in our house - tears of joy.
It really is the best tv programme, well it is whilst it's still at the audition stage. The ladyfriend and I rush home from the high street, pop the chops under a low light and switch on to see Cowell et al sort the Wheat from the Chav.

I have been under the weather. I've had razor blades in my throat the size of those dwarf actors you get in provincial Christmas pantomimes. I'm better now though and back to my usual nasty self. I've got my eye on that Natasha Kaplinksy. I was raging with anger at her this morning over my porridge (which incidentally was made with soya milk - I didn't like it, I had to add more sugar which surely counteracts any health benefits which my switch from dairy would have made)
Anyway, she sat there boss eyed, pouting, dressed like she was off to a brothel afterwards whilst Bill Turnbill (a woman in drag?) tried to keep things together. Natasha stumbled with the long AND short words. I tell you, the woman is the Victoria Beckham of morning television. It was reported this week in the red tops that 'Posh' has never read a book before - join the club with Natasha - she's never read an autocue!

Lola's a mess. Grumpy too. I've a throat full of razor blades and I've been acting right grouchy all day. Were it not for our Captain's glorious batting on the Cricket field I think I would be in deep mood indigo indeed. I need to get better soon so I have been drinking a huge bio yog smoothie (alarming calorie count) in an attempt to holisticly treat the bacteria.

I want to be in tip top condition, with a shiny coat and wet nose on Saturday as it's Kelly's wedding. I don't want to be sat like a wallflower, frowning at the revellers whilst chewing on scotch eggs.

I'm feeling a bit under the weather. As I write this I have a bit of a thumper. I blame the air conditioning ofcourse. I've been breathing in the germs of thirty odd people (quantity, not age) and it's no wonder I am diseased.

I shall have to cook invalid food for tonight's supper. The ladyfriend won't be happy but it's as much as I can do to crack an egg. No doubt she will raise her fists, take off to the pub and come home stinking of ale and pork scratchings.........what it is to be a woman.

Oh dear, I don't know about hit the bottle but I reckon the bottle hit me this weekend. I am now on a complete detox although I have just eaten a tuna sandwhich of dubious quality and terrifying calorie count.

Brighton Pride was sensational this year - and I have the pictures to prove it : www.lifeforlola.co.uk/gallery/gaypride2005 I had the best time ever but have to admit to getting really, rather squiffy. I even danced in a tent which smelt of mud, damp grass and delicate womens perspiration (the women weren't delicate, the sweat was)

I was very pleased with my t-shirt. A few people got it. The ornotholgists among you might notice the species of bird on my top.....

I can see my house from here! I've been in China this morning, Rome yesterday and this afternoon, if no one is looking, I might pop off to Paris for a mince around the Champs Elysee. Yes, that's right folks, I'm talking about the fantastic Google Map service. I'm addicted. You can zoom right in from space onto earth. It's phenomenal. Take a look here: http://maps.google.com I think sensitive military targets may be obscured but it's hours of fun. Meet me in St. Louis for afternoon tea!

I'm off out with the girls after work tonight. It's not the sort of thing I regularly do. Since joining a new working environment I've noticed it's something that they do rather a lot. I feel like a proper "office girl". The sort that has a skin care routine, the sort who tries the latest fad diet, reads Heat magazine, watches Enders and drinks diet coke. Instead of the bitter and twisted old dyke which I am normally, tonight Matthew I will be a bubbly girl from work who laughs like a drain, gets smashed on Bacardi and photocopies her arse on a photocopier!

The countdown to Brighton Pride has begun, I'm hoping for good weather. Each year the ladyfriend and I promise ourselves we will watch the parade and not trudge to Preston park but every year we get Pride Amnesia. Oh what the hey, like a battered wife I'll forgive and put myself through it all again. By this time on Saturday I will have a thumping headache, a hatred of screaming queens, a shattered ear drum because of the whistles and food poisoning from a dodgy falafel.

I will bump into all the people I have ever wanted to avoid and the train ride to Eastbourne, which enroute was so enchanting, will be never ending and over airconditioned. The ladyfriend and I will scowl at each other all the way home.