I've been having trouble with the pussy (as Mrs Slocombe would say) Whilst my parents swan about on the aft deck the Ladyfriend and I are in charge of looking after the house and cats. What we thought might be a bit of an easy stretch - working our way through the wine, fridge, toiletries (I've got a thing about using other people's bubble bath and shampoo - never ask me to look after your house)and broadband hit a snag on Saturday night.
Rosie, who is a bag of nerves to begin with, developed a nasty eye infection and began to eat part of her right leg. So Sunday morning we were vet bound. We crammed the poor thing into a picnic basket and sat on the lid and made off to the surgery.
It was emergencies only due to the bank holiday (and double bubble) We saw a box of baby labradors in a shoe box and an old girl with a tiny dog who shuffled about looking like she's come straight from Central Casting. She got a bit of a shock at the check out when the bill swallowed up the best part of her pension.
We left clutching eye drops and drugs, Rosie had the humiliation of one of those cone collars - that came off when we were out of sight of the building - we thought it a little bit extreme.
She's as right as nine pence now though and wolfing down the Whiskas, if I didn't know better I'd say she did it on purpose, do you think Cats can self harm? Has modern life caught up with animal world? Does the other cat have munchausen by proxy?

We've had ship to shore news from the travelling parents, apparently my mother was nearly arrested in Rome. Much news is made of our crazed youth in Magaluf but it would seem our over sixties are tarnishing our reputation just the same. My mum had an Anita Ekberg moment and dipped her hot tootsies in the Trevi fountain. The police appeared faster than you can say La Dolce Vita and swooped on her. They were rather ill tempered and have put my mother off Rome for life, she does not intend to go back. It's probably just as well. When in Rome and all that.

For those who like to conjur mental pictures (not deranged images but scene setters) I am bent over a lap top on one of my mothers kitchen worktop, a bit like that kid in Peanuts with the piano. She's in Rome, I'm in her home. The ladyfriend and I are house sitting whilst my parents are off on another one of their grand tours of europe sponsored by Saga holidays.
The weekend was great. Eastbourne airshow was smashing and I got to see the Utterly Butterly wingwalkers. The crowd were a mixed bunch, quite a few of the fellows were rather odd looking, they wore dark clothing, clutched huge binoculurs and squinted into the horizon. They were the sort of gentleman who are unable to form relationships with people of the opposite sex (or the same - let's not close any door, bless 'em) but could reel off the statistics of military aircraft from 1940 to the present day. We can't all be good at everything, I for one am rubbish (if you excuse the pun) at tying up refuse bags, I'm terrible, yet it looks like the easiest thing in the world when I see other people doing it. I always seem to leave a big gaping hole for rats to scurry in and out of. Oh but now I am rambling.
We saw some of the airshow from the comfort of our own home as some noisy plane with fire coming out of it roared above the roof tops. I thought to myself as I squealed in delight pulling up the sash windows, here I am craning my neck at war craft jets whilst those poor devils in the Lebanon were trying to save theirs from the same thing. A lesson for us all there. And another thing, could you spell binoculars if pushed?

It's the annual airshow at Eastbourne this weekend where aeroplanes fly up and down the shoreline infront of a gasping crowd. It's insanely dangerous when you think about it but fabulous none the less. My favourite are the wing walkers and the red arrows - you can watch those daredevils from our flat window. You may find it a surprise but I do get rather bored of the stunt ones that loop the loop, I have grown desensitized to them even though they go up tiddly up and go down tiddly down. I shall attempt to take pictures but it aint easy to catch a gypsy moth in full flight as you can imagine.

Woops! That's what happens when you don't understand mobile phone blogging.

Oh I had to laugh. There I am being not at all nice about Ipods and where do you think I was at lunchtime? On Ebay that's where. I found out that I can buy a little contraption for only a fiver that I can stick into my new mobile phone which allows me to connect it to my stereo speakers or headphones. As I can store all of my Neil Diamonds albums on the mobile and anything else (I downloaded the new Cerys Matthews video last night) it IS for all intents and purposes an Ipod. So get me, a walking talking hypocrite with knobs on.

I thought having animals was supposed to make you happy. On my way to work I pass a lady built like an outside lavvy walking a tiny looking yap, yap dog. She never smiles. She looks like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders and transexual steroids pumping around her veins. Infact the only tell tale sign that she is a woman is the two grapefruits swaying in her poloshirt (same top, every day) Perhaps that's why she is so grumpy, she has a limited wardrobe. I may toss out a bundle of old fleeces that I've got knocking around, what with the cooler mornings coming I'm sure she will be glad of it. Or, I could run over her dog and that would save her her morning constitutional all together. She'll be quids in as she will be saving money on the Chum and she could put it towards something in the Cotton Traders catalogue. Everyone's a winner.

I was hunting yesterday for a cd from my rather eclectic music collection when I stumbled on a disc of digital photos that were taken in the year 2000. Digital photography was in it's infancy in my neck of the woods at the time and Peter - who was fluent in several languages - had a camera. It was Christmas Eve and as was usual in those days my friends at the time would all go down to a village pub and become loud and bawdy, sing carols etc. Anyway, what I saw on this disc astonished me. I looked thin, fit as a whippet yet I remember feeling portly at the time. BUT that was not what shocked me the most. EVERY ONE in the pictures looked thin. In the last six years my circle of friends have grown but not numerically. We have all become fat bangers. What's happened in those six years? The subjects of the photos are of differing ages so it aint a natural swelling. What the hell will happen in another six years? Will I have to be winched out of bed? The diet begins today. I am set on a course to regain my turn of the century fighting weight or face a life of sweaty rolls of fat.

Brighton Pride was fab, the weather was nice and we got to gawp at Babs Windsor on the back of a lorry. My pictures will be up shortly as my server is 'migrating' so I should be able to upload them tomorrow. They are not my best work, Lola had an off day.
We DID drink but quite sensibly, even so we felt quite wan yesterday. I think it was the dancing, we certainly didn't disgrace ourselves. Talking of which, at the train station on the way home a group of unsavoury ladies were legless, they were not nice girls, they had bunny ears on, clothes several sizes too small for them with bulging cleaveage. I found them quite alarming, their limited use of the English language filled the train carriage - the air was decidedly blue. Front pages of the Daily Mail whirled in my mind with 'Binge drinking Chav' and 'sluts on the sauce' headlines.
Opposite me was a pale young boy who looked like he'd seen a ghost, infact, he looked like a sickly child in a Victorian novel who'd been locked up in the nursery after his mother had died in childbirth. He was terrified, he covered his ears as the girls effed and blinded and talked of their sexual conquests - even I shrunk into my seat. I daresay they are sat at work now flicking through Heat magazine when they should be clamped in stocks on the village green.

The Ladyfriend and I were having a shall we not drink at Pride conversation this morning - it's tomorrow. If we do indulge we always end up ready for Ovaltine and bedsocks by 3pm. The walk to the train station feels like a Himalayan hike and cheap pizza slices always work their way into the day.
I said, if we don't drink at Pride it's an admission of the onset of old age and I can't let that happen, I'm already rolling into the carpark of maturity and not drinking at Pride will be like buying the bloody pay and display ticket! I've already developed fine lines and wrinkles as they say in the adverts, I occasionally suffer 'one of my heads', policemen DO look like teenagers and I'm forever asking the ladyfriend 'what did he say' during tv programmes.
Tomorrow then will be expensive cans of lager, junk food and blisters and that's alright with me.

I've just lost myself. I went for a drive to find some lunch as this morning's sandwich range in Sainsbury was decided unfullfilling (if you can excuse the pun) By the way, the weather at 8am today was rather Christmas Dayish, quiet, cool and drizzly. Anyway, off I motored slipping into a side street here and a cul de sac there when I discovered to my horror that I had not a clue where I was. I pitched up near a newsagents and popped in and bought some weird sandwich which the rotund chef Brian Turner in his wisdom had put his name to - it was bland and unmemorable much like himself - I also bought some salt and vinegar square crisps incase my levels fell as who knew which barren landscape I may have found myself in next? Anyway, fifteen minutes later familiar scenery came into view and I'm back at my desk, there-there it's all over now but what a fright. I often get myself in similiar pickles in the car. I quite like it as I find what I'm made of as I face the elements face on and pitch myself against the universe. The most hairy was back in June when I went to find petrol and ended up in Harlsden....but that's a story for another day.

During my lunch break I decided to walk off a blood clot that I felt may be forming in my leg and went for a mince around the Industrial Estate I work on. It was quite an eye opener. I don't know if it was once woodland or perhaps had been sympathetically designed but I was taken aback by how many different species of tree there are. There's Rowan, Ash, Oak, several members of the pine family, beeches galore and holly. There is even a blackberry bush which is nearly ripe for the plucking. How wonderful, infact it is more like a bloody arboretum than a corporate carbuncle. Bring on Autumn with its pallete of red, brown and yellow and I will be fizzing with joy.
By the way, the Ladyfriend has been dissing my photo gallery, she say's that it is hard to work out. It's not rocket science but in the future I plan to have 18 galleries of 18 pictures which you can access from the front page of the gallery. Please bear with me, I need 18 interesting subjects. Mind you I am off to Brighton Pride this weekend so I shall come back rammed with delightful exposures.

It was Oliver the Great's christening on Sunday and the Ladyfriend and I were keen to attend. So keen infact that we got there early to grab a pew - very early. The Ladyfriend decided that a casual glance at the invitation was not necessary and we turned up with two hours to spare. She blames her age but I'm not so certain.
We had a very nice day, it was the first christening that I have ever been to, I have not even had one of my own. I was never dunked as a babe and as a consequence I will be waiting in limbo when I pass over. I will have to take a ticket and wait for a place in heaven to go spare, no doubt the unmarried mothers and immigrants will queue jump even on the other side!