It's my last day at work today and at 1 O'clock I will be escorted down a long corridor by guards jangling keys. I will stop at the reception and collect the things I had to hand in when I signed a contract seven years ago. Things like dreams, hope and a sizeable chunk of my brain (the bit that works). I will walk out into the blinding sunshine and take my first steps of freedom - we are not talking Nelson Mandella here but you get my drift.
How exciting. My posting may get a bit sluggish from here on in as I'm dial up at home and I have to run up and down with extension leads to get on the internet. But keep tuning in, you never know.
Raise a glass to Lola where ever you are tonight, the pubs of market towns, mexican restaurants in Slough, on the sofas of Basildon and the cafes of the Rue Bergere. Toast to Lola's good fortune and an exciting year ahead.

I was thinking. You know people wear pedometers to measure how many steps that they take each day. Wouldn't it be good if there were ones for speaking? They tell you how talkative you've been. Also, what sort of words you've used. Long ones, tricky to pronounce ones, obscene ones, slang ones and ones that you don't really know the meaning of but like to pepper your conversations with because you've heard them said before with great aplomb (there you go,there's one already).

I think they would be an invaluable resource. An improving tool which would note exactly where you dropped your 'H'. As long as it didn't make you sound like Steven Hawkings they could sit around your neck. They could even be accessorized like an i-pod. They may encourage the shy to chit chat, they would try and beat their tally daily and intergrate more with society. They may even encourage a few people to pipe down.

Had a nice weekend although I feel I may have picked up a dose of something. Icky head and sore throat kind of thing. I know I'm a bit run down due to the job situation. 5 days and counting till I have my freedom. It's very hard to motivate myself to go to work. This morning was the worst but I pulled myself together and I'm sitting here with menacing thoughts and hatred bubbling in my veins. A rumbling volcano of redundancy.

On to nicer things, I flew my kite at Pevensey Bay yesterday. It was a beautiful day the sun a welcome guest on my ruddy windblown cheeks. A little boy eyed my kite with envy but I was having none of it. I ignored his pleading gaze, he can get his own.

My mate Carol - the nicest American in the world - is pictured here on Ehukai beach. The sea is rather choppy and plagued with jelly fish. I'll keep to the gentle ebb and flow of Eastbourne's beach, it's blue flag quality, gently lapping and excrement is kept to a minimum.

Talking of foul things. Never buy creme fraiche in a hurry. Last night I was in a bit of a hurry and purchased a tub of the stuff for a quick chicken and mushroom sauce to go with pasta (a family favourite) anyhow, I slopped the stuff in the pan and oh my God...a peculiar chemical reaction occured. Strange frothy grey globules floated to the top of the pan. I was puzzled. I fished the tub out of the swing bin and found to my horror that the french dairy invention was not creme fraiche but bloody fromage frais! We had to chuck the lot it was vile. A lesson for us all there.

My pirate name is:

Bloody Bess Flint

Every pirate lives for something different. For some, it's the open sea. For others (the masochists), it's the food. For you, it's definitely the fighting. Like the rock flint, you're hard and sharp. But, also like flint, you're easily chipped, and sparky. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from fidius.org.

I think everyone I have spoken to saw the end of Crufts last night and the crazy bitch (not canine) dancing to 'All that jazz' with her dog. I've never seen anything like it in my life. Time stood still as a woman on the wrong side of 40 paraded about in a packed arena dressed in a diamond spangled cowboy shirt waving a baton. I didn't know where to look, it was car crash tv with a flat tyre.

I was in Hastings yesterday, it's crying out for a tin of paint that place. It has the look of lost wealth. It has been carved up by architects on LSD with the occasional slice of faded grandeur. Whilst driving along the seafront we came across a group of people running with buckets and a big banner saying "Send Maggie to Rotterdam" I was intrigued. What's in Rotterdam?

I wondered if it was a dying wish of Maggie to see the Erasmus Bridge or did she want to see a football match or a Robbie Williams concert that her current funds prohibited. I did then think that perhaps Maggie didn't know she was going to be taken, perhaps her family have had enough. Perhaps she's too far gone and they want to take advantage of their relaxed views on euthanasia.

Oh please, I've heard it all now. Apparently there are still kids in the UK living below the poverty line. What rot. The definition of "poverty" in this country isn't what you'd think. It isn't not having food, starving and begging on the streets but apparently not having access to DIGITAL TELEVISION!!!! Poor? to be honest, from what I've seen of it, a life would be so much richer from not being exposed to BBC3.
A better dish to have should surely be one with meat and two veg not a carbuncle stuck on the side of your house to pick up Murdoch's vomit (mind you...perhaps that's what Tony wants?)

Quite shocked to discover that there is a family in Turkey who walk on their hands 'missing link' style. The image of them in the Times bounding about on all fours has unsettled me. How does this sort of behaviour slip through the net? Mother Nature does play a cruel trick or two when she's in a pissy mood. I count my lucky stars that my figure (although generous and ample) is well proportioned and run of the mill. Thank God for the moribund is what I say.
The Ladyfriend and I watched "A Taste of Honey" at the weekend. It has always been a favourite of mine and it was nice to see it again. It was wonderful to see how England used to be, simple pleasures, no cappucino culture or downloadable ring tones. We got it free with the paper. I must confess that we are Tabloid tarts, we have no allegiance what so ever and will hop from one paper to the next depending on what DVD's going. Shameless.
I am also a fan of T J Hughes (he's not some lefty author but a shop in Eastbourne) it sells super stuff cheap. I bought the Letter to Brechnev DVD for £4.99 I'm looking forward to a slice of Margi Clarke and God knows there's enough to go round.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside, I do like to be beside the sea. This weekend was a real tonic. The hard egg of winter broke it's shell and out plopped the yolk of a sun onto a bright blue Eastbourne sky. The temperate climate gave me such a glow I wish I could bottle it.

Back here in South Buckinghamshire it's like Buncefield all over again. There is nothing but gloom, doom and traffic and I want out.

OK the BBC can have a pat on the back for "Thin Ice" - it is magic. The ladyfriend and I laughed like drains when we watched the first episode. I think it's on Tuesdays, you must give it a go.
Talking of Ice and Magic, I used to love Ice magic chocolate sauce. You poured it onto ice cream and it would set like concrete. I remember buying it in the Wavey Line with a nice block of vanilla ice cream. Ofcourse it has gone from the shelves now, I think I heard it had asbestos in or something a bit icky. Product recall and all that.
I like product recall adverts in the paper. I always wonder what on earth could have gone wrong or what accident they were the design of. Children maimed by rasberry jam. One doesn't want to risk litigation but I've seen a fair few from Asda in my time.