Just discovered my mate is a celebrity. click here to see. How exciting. I am ofcourse buttering her up so I can hang to the shirt tales of her success. Well, I'll wait until she moves down to London, I can't go too far north or my nose will bleed. Just fancy, I could be pictured in Hello magazine in ludicrous trousers (taste and fame don't mix)and get caught by paparazzi and mamarazzi with my huge expensive drug habit! If Sadie Frost can do it so can I.
Talking of habits, I was ready to become a nun this morning. On my way to work the beauty of nature and the Lord became all apparent. I stood by the stream, sun streaking through the bronze leaves as a mist came off the water. It was beautiful. If a passing Catholic had chanced to pass by I would have signed up on the spot.

During my lunch break I popped down to feed the ducks at the riverbank. They were standing in a great cluster with their little tums a rumbling. I don't think people have been so enthusiastic about getting close to them because of the bird flu thing. They all looked perfectly healthy, infact there is one duck down there that looks as though it has eaten all the others, it is huge.
There was one though who looked a little worse for wear and I must admit I did feel a tinsy winsy bit hesitant as I broke off bits from the baton. I was a bit like that when it came to TB. I'd frog march the Ladyfriend and I away from asylum seekers. When AIDS was at its height I thought myself very PC when I would visit my friend who was a nurse at the London Lighthouse. One of the patients greeted me with a kiss and I must confess to feeling a little hysterical. I'm no Princess Diana and that's the truth.
So this little duck was a slight problem. I didn't know whether to throw more his way or step back from his webbed advances. He did look as though he had just flown long haul. Watch this space.

I've been listening to my money. Not in the investment sense although lord knows I could do with advice (or someone sewing up my pockets so I can't delve into them for pennies for treats) No, I've been trying to hear it. It doesn't make any sound at all, not a whisper. So when people say "...to the tune of 5,000 pounds" they are talking nonsense. I'd love to know what that sounds like. Money talks? nonsense.
By the way, I am fizzing with excitement. On November 5th, the ladyfriend and I are meeting Michelle and Sarah (spinsters of the parish of Brighton) in Lewes for the bonfire celebrations. I have been desperate to attend this event for the last two years but for one reason or another I have been held back like a greyhound in the traps. Take a look at this website for all the details! - www.lewesbonfirecouncil.org.uk
By the way, one wept last night at the end of Monarch of the Glen.

Champagne corks are flying and a box of celebrations have been opened as we commemorate the Battle of Trafalgar and WALLOPPING the Frenchies! Lofty and I are getting into the nautical spirit. I am dressed as a jolly jack tar and Lofty is drapped in the Union Jack - that's the spirit!
Ofcourse the irony is, I wreak of garlic and am closer to Francais than Anglais but I'm trying to mask that with my mint IMPERIALS!
Tonight I'm going to cook roast beef and light my beacon and revel in the smashing of Johnny Foreigner. I may have a nip of Napoleon brandy for good measure!

I am disarmingly close to mortification. There is only one episode left of Monarch of the Glen. EVER. I warmed to this sunday night dollop of absolute rot out of irony. I was trying to be clever. Just like 'Cutting it' (although I have since quit this alarming habit) what started as a joke became a serious penchant.
M.O.G, just like the Antique Road Show, began to symbolise the changing of the season. As summer drew to a close and autumn wrapped its bronze arms about me, the tv would be filled with lochs and bagpipes. What am I to do now? I can't stand anything with Pauline Quirke in and have never expressed an interest in Heartbeat. Where will boss eyed Susan Hampshire ply her trade now? She will join Wendy Craig on the scrap heap. I've come accustomed to her face, all be it in soft focus and sensitively shot.

This time last week the ladyfriend and I were mincing around the harbour at Weymouth. We had dropped everything off at our woodland digs and went exploring. I was as happy as a sandboy, darting through the nooks and crannies and mysterious alleyways. One could almost feel the presence of the pressgangers as we trapsed along the cobbled pathways.
Weymouth seems to have more than its fair share of elderly visitors. Eastbourne is like an 18-30 holiday resort in comparison. I was very surprised. They are eagle eyed though. They kept catching me taking pictures. Not like the Sussex gummers, I snap away down there and they are none the wiser, the ones in Weymouth glared at me as I released the shutter. Old buggers.

Oh lordy, a few minutes left until the Ladyfriend and I are off on holiday. We have booked a little bolthole in Weymouth for the week. It's in a woodland setting and we intend to do not a jot. In my mind I can see myself mooning about in chunky jumpers, drinking hot chocolate, kicking autumnal leaves and laughing as I kick them. I'm drawing inspiration from a Marie Claire fashion shoot only with smiles not glum looks of displeasure. I'm gonna grab a tartan rug, a book and the chess set and retire to our log cabin next the sea.

By the way, I am out of bounds of the computer so you and I can have a break!

I've been watching this school kids eating crap school dinners with interest. I saw some of the Jamie Oliver thing - I do like Jamie even though his tongue is becoming perilously fat and can only end in suffocation - it's not the food that has shocked me most, but how they eat it.

In my day (here we go) we sat on circular tables of six kids or less and had our lunch on china plates, ate with stainless steel cutlery then had our pudding in or on another seperate bowl afterwards. These kids queue up with plastic moulded trays with little sections for different types of slop to go in and that's that. They then have to sit and eat their main course whilst their blamange is winking at them out of the corner of their eye. That can't be good.

In my day we knew how to eat (and I still do - I'm detoxing by the way, I've been alcohol free for three days)we knew how to hold a knife and fork, were adept with a spoon and kept our elbows off the table. There were the odd one or two children (pikeys) who ate food off their knives and held their forks like a dagger but it was a rare occasion. The children I saw on the tv the other day were all doing it! They looked like feral children raised by wolves.

It's now time to boycott Terry's and their chocolate oranges. I was never a big tapper and unwrapper but they are definitely off the menu from now. Terry's of York have just closed their chocolate factory after yonks and yonks (I think the company itself began in 1767) and have shipped production to some Polish backwater. Obviously it will cost them pennies to churn out their confection on the continent but I think they have made a very big mistake.
From now on, I shall only buy British. I shall look for the kite mark on all my products, I am turning my back on the EU (although I should imagine it's very unwise to turn your back on a Frenchie)I'm fed up with our jobs melting away to the Eastern Block. Motorways snarled up with their terrible drivers who change lanes pissed up on Vodka as they bring back stuff for our shops.
I don't mind the Chinese making our tellies as they have smaller hands for the fiddly bits but I object to Indians dabbling with my bank details, Slovakians running up my inside legs and ruddy Poles assembling my orange segments.

Had one of those binge drinking kind of weekends that one reads about often in the Daily Mail. The Ladyfriend and I entertained Michelle and Sarah (two good spinsters of the parish of Brighton) on Saturday night. The conversation flowed freely and so too did the wine.

Sunday morning therefore was one of pure horror. The Ladyfriend and I made the trek to Favoloso's for a full English breakfast. I've talked of Favoloso before but to those new to Lola it is a cafe in Eastbourne which does every food possible as long as it can fit on their pin board menu where the letters are stuck in those holes. They also do those big ice creams with exotic name (knickerbocker whats its) The highlight of Favoloso is the clock on the wall which, when the clock strikes a new hour, it opens up and people come out of the sides playing music. I love it.

Anyway, there is a tramp in Eastbourne who I have always admired because he looks lovely. Infact he looks like Father Christmas. I saw him as we went in to get our much needed fry up.
Whilst waiting for the Ladyfriend to bring over my lovely big latte I grabbed a table and looked out of the window and across the road sat the tramp. He waited with his duvet rolled up when from behind the counter a waitress took over an enormous cup of coffee to him. He looked up and his rosey red cheeks shone so bright and his smile lit my day. He IS Father Christmas. I reckon he's trying to find out who's naughty and nice by sleeping rough in bus shelters. He is not to be found in department stores but on park benches. And although I'd rather not sit on his knee I would prefer a picture of the Eastbourne tramp on my Christmas cards this year than the overinflated pensioner in the red suit of old.