Well it looked good on paper but then so does communism. Two weeks on Bodmin Moor in a cloth tent is perhaps not everyone's idea of fun and sadly it wasn't ours either. We came home after a week. It wasn't just the flies, the damp or the filthy shower blocks and it certainly wasn't just the early morning wake up calls of the farmer's tractor that drove us home. We DID have a nice time only the culmination of early mornings and lack of sleep, riffy conditions and the scent of mildew became too much to handle. I think it was the driving rain that swung it. It started off lovely, scorching summer sun, swimming in the sea, winding lanes and picturesque fishing villages, basking shark watching and alfresco dining (we must of eaten our body weight in homous) We did get back to nature and if you like duck poo I'd recommend Bodmin Moor to anyone but two weeks was just not our idea of a summer holiday - we came home looking like those two off 'On golden pond' it'll take surgery to lift these bags.
Anyway, we're off down to Eastbourne to spend the rest of our holiday in the lap of luxury CARPET, HOT WATER, BATHROOM, a KITCHEN! Benidorm next year or perhaps even Margate but you wont find me trudging across a field to have a piddle.

Oh at long last. Lady luck has smiled at me with all her teeth showing (how does she keep them so white? You'd think she'd ride her luck and drink heavily and smoke and eat confectionary, her teeth by rights should be dull but oh no, they gleam like the lights of an expensive car in the dead of night in a country lane) anyway I HAVE GOT A JOB! I start on Monday 17th July. Oh happy day. No more will I eat luncheon supplied by ASDA, inhale the fumes of the A40 or look vacantly at the situations in the paper (by the way what is a CAD operator and why do they need so many?) Lola has got a job.
You won't hear much from me other the next two weeks, tomorrow the ladyfriend make for the west country. Yurts are the new black by the way.

Aaah, modern life. I am time poor, I have not had the time to update Lola, not had a minute to reply to emails, I've spent traffic jams sending text messages and shopping, which used to be a pleasureable leisureable experience, has turned into a lightning campaign. I did a whole week's shop in fifteen minutes on Sunday, the ladyfriend sat in the car whilst I supermarket sweeped - it was a soulless experience, I hardly had time to fondle an avocado. The reason I am saying all this is because on Friday the ladyfriend and I are heading off to Cornwall for two weeks, trouble is, before we can begin our summer soujorn we have to pack a months worth of activity into three days. The ladyfriend has informed me that I can no longer wear anything white and after tomorrow, nothing coloured. What am I to wear? My scuba gear is already packed. It shall have to be my painter's smock and beret again.
The poor ladyfriend has drawn the shortest straw, because my work takes me away from the family home I shall not be available for the domestic challenges that face us, so it will be up to her to hoover the grass, shop her elderly mother and iron the carpet. I've got off quite lightly.
So Cornwall for two weeks! A fortnight of salty windblown hair, ruddy cheeks and carefree summer evenings. Yurts are trendy, camping is cool, it said so in the Sunday Times. Reducing your carbon footprint is all the rage. I do prefer to be on the upsurge of a trend however because of it I expect the roads of Cornwall will be chock a block with yummy mummies in camper vans with kids called TinkyChops and Marrakesh. We shall see......

I didn't tell you did I? In fact I have only just been able to bring myself to tell anyone that I was violated in the car park at ASDA Park Royal. It was last week, I was driving through the lines of parked cars to find a space and stopped whilst there was a hold up. Suddenly a man in a white car reversed out of a space, kept on reversing although I was there and could move neither hither or thither and smacked into one of my flanks. I parked my battered motor and went to find the chap with pad and pencil and he had sped off into the distance. If held out I'd have to say he was probably an illegal immigrant with no right to be parking in Blighty let alone shopping in ASDA in the first place. I dare say he didn't have the necessary documentation or insurance to drive anyway and had I managed to challenge him I would have been punched or worse still stabbed as that seems to be the fashion these days. It is not a long held fantasy of mine to appear on the front of the Daily Mail and to have my murder in association with ASDA Park Royal sends a shudder up the spine.
On a lighter note (in more ways than one) it's the Summer Solstice today, so enjoy today as it's down the helter skelter into the darkness from now on.

Had a very nice weekend - although I am yet to fully recover from a bout of binge drinking on Saturday night - the Ladyfriend and I went down to Eastbourne where we got to try out our new beach tent. It's fantastic, it protects you from the harmful rays of the sun, the page flicking wind and the gaze of flabby teenagers. It is a revolution for the ladyfriend and I as normally we cart chairs, parasols, rugs, cans of ginger beer, sandwiches, a kite and a favoured broadsheet down to the seashore. Now all we need is the tent and a rug, a bag of provisions and Bob really is your uncle. It also combines all the fun of camping and the seaside in one fabulous hit. I'm just amazed it took us so long.
On Saturday night we went to see Michelle and Sarah, two spinsters of the parish of Brighton, where I have been partly converted to the ipod (for home use only) I couldn't work the damn thing but I did enjoy the selection of music which was available. It does take out the furtive fumbling for a cd in the fading light of a summer evening but I'm still yet to be fully sold on them. My latest surrender to the 21st century is the need for a contract mobile phone .I'm window shopping at the moment but it doesn't sit well with me. Next I'll be wanting broadband, sky tv and a wide screen television - oh God forbid.

Has the perrier gone straight to my head? I've been watching England in the World Cup. The Ladyfriend got a bit nasty. She knows her stuff. Sven should have pulled them all off at half time. Not that nice Mr Beckham though, we like him. No, it's Lampard that gets the bums rush on our sofa at the moment. To be honest I've found this world cup a bit lack lustre, the BBC theme tune isn't a hum dinger, the ITV lot look like the dregs left in the Legion at closing time and the camera man that films the matches looks better placed to assasinate a passing president than film a sporting occasion so high up is he I'm surprised he can breathe. The only thing I do like is the font that the players have on the back of their shirts, it's very nice, but then fonts are nice, I notice fonts, I notice nasty ones and nice ones, rounded ones and sharp ones, dated ones and ones that are pleasing to the eye, my favourite fonts are the ones that look like nice handwriting but it's not comic sans. I forget what it is, there is one that has an 'a' that looks like the 'a' my primary school teacher used to write and it transports me back as soon as I see it...write, I'm off, there is still a little wine left and half a bakewell tart, Lola is pissed. Oh, life tends to come and go As long as you know Know, know, know, know

Ipods, I don't get it. Back in the 80's people walked around with Sony Walkmans, the craze went away and now it has returned with ipods. I don't understand. I see people with white wire dangling around their necks and 'tut tut'. A girl was driving behind me today and I could see when I took my occasional glance in the rear view mirror that she had two white lumps hanging off her ears. At first I thought she may be deaf but realised that those sort of hearing aids are no longer dished out on the NHS (more's the pity - I personally like to recognise a handicap instantly in a crowd, you know where you are and are prepared for THAT voice when they talk to you)
Anyway, why did she have to listen to an ipod whilst driving? I've seen others with them walking short journeys, waltzing around the shops, jogging. Surely life is noisy enough not to inflict it on yourself 24 hours a day. The greatest sound is mother nature taking a deep sigh, the sound of the blackbird is top of my hit parade.
It's all a fad which will pass. I reckon Cliff Richard should dust down his rollerskates and re-release 'wired for sound' That will have 'em one, the sales will plummit over night. To be honest, half the time I reckon these people have only bought the headphones and not the actual device. It's all for show, did you know they make them in Shenzhen and the workers are on £27 a month or something like that. It was in the Daily Mirror today, they live in dorms and work 15 hour shifts, the production line never stops, poor sods......shuffle that with your conscience.

Whilst I've been doing this freelancey thing I've had to send emails here and there all over Europe. I've had to interact with people with funny names in Uzbekistan and the like, I even had a phone call from the Black Sea! Anyway, one thing that has hit home is the amount of my communication that is peppered with phrases that no one outside of beautiful Britain would understand. Things like 'cut the mustard', 'smashing' that kind of thing. I'm sure if I wrote 'horse has bolted' the people in Moscow would think the cold war had started again. So I've had to tread careful with my grammar (there I go again). As a consequence my emails have lost all decoration. They look cold and remote. I did think I was getting somewhere with a French man but we had to revert back to basics when I realised I was leading him up the garden path......lord I've done it again. I challenge all Lola readers to go a day pretending you are talking to someone from Eastern Europe (mind you, you probably do anyway, if the Daily Mail is to be believed they are all over here stealing our jobs and eating our women or something like that) anyway, have a go, don't use any phrases that would make them not see the wood for the trees and see how you get on.

Today Life For Lola is rattling the tin of charity under your noses. My friend Ushma (the official face of the World Cup) is doing one of those running about things for titty cancer and all that and through the magic of the internet you can donate money so she can hit her target. She's ever such a nice lass, the only brown girl in the office, keen and ever so jammy. She's even interviewed Tony Blair.....and lived!
Anyway, here is the link www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/ushmamistry you can give as little or as much as you like. I know my readers are kind, considerate and generouse - even if I didn't get my Figaro car.
I'm afraid you wont catch me doing that sort of thing as I'm not built for speed so I wont go asking for you to dig in your pockets again. Go Team Ushma!

I don't think that I'm thinking ahead enough. Yesterday in ASDA's I was sandwiched at the till between an two old gummers. The one behind me had a pint of milk and four tins of cat food in her basket. The lady in front had a tin of lentil soup and a bag of watercress and that was it. I felt a bit bad. These women were obviously finding the times hard. My smoothie alone would blow their household budget and turn any thoughts of an annual trip to Weymouth seem out of the question. I'm sure these women in their younger days would, like me, splash out on fancy trinkets and horse brasses and now they watch the pennies through their failing eyesight.

I have not really wanted to bring up the subject of Sharon Osbourne but whenever she does spring to mind I do feel a lump coming back up the throat. I've never been keen, there is something a bit downmarket about a woman who seems so desperate to sell herself, splatter herself across the tabloids like pigeon sh*t on Lord Nelson. No, she's not my cup of mushroom tea. The Rebecca Loos fiasco was toe curling. It reminded me of situations I have found myself in when two women start having a go at each other (offices are a breeding ground for such sort of behaviour) in pubs when pints are hurled, outside school gates, in traffic jams, and every time I have looked on in startled disbelief. Hand bags at dawn, not on national tv.
Mrs Osbourne is as common as muck, she's the sort that 'go up that school' and sort out teachers who punish their children. That tart with a heart routine she pulls with the under priveliged and tone death is wearing a bit thin from where I'm standing. I had to slam shut the Daily Mail last week because she was pictured squeazing the junkie breath out of some spotty kid on heroin in that "I understand luv, I've been there darling" and with every snap of the camera shutter sales of her auto-biography go up and up.
I had her cards marked when she gave that diddy koy Tabby the run of the house, it wasn't long after that she became the face of ASBO, patting her backside at all that money she was pretending to save the Chavs at the checkout. Then followed the Sunday paper headlines orchestrated to boost her profile and all those bottles of Henna - urrgh, ghastly woman.

Had a smashing weekend. The Ladyfriend and I were supposed to take our usual trip to the coast but we decided to take advantage of the good weather and spend time on the garden. The grass had grown so high that we were beginning to stick out like sore thumbs in the street. You can be an unmarried mother, inject heroin in the corner shop and beat your wife to a pulp but nothing brings greater shame than letting your lawn grow too high.
It took ages, the woman next door kept hanging out her washing which had been laced with cheap fabric conditioner, it was too much. The lovely natural smell of cut grass mingled with the synthetic stench of Unilever's laboratory and I wasn't happy. Anyway, it's done now, we can leave the house without dark glasses and the threat of social disgrace.
The weekend was peppered with family visits. Oliver the Great popped in (pictured above)on Saturday with the Thatcham Massive and today we scoffed sausage sandwiches with Amy, the nicest niece. A smashing, unexpected weekend. We are now officially on a Four Week countdown to the Yurt by the way.

I've become a bit addicted to smoothies - not home-made ones, although I do have a smoothie maker - but shop bought ones, in particular the Innocent ones. I've been popping one in my basket for my lunch every day, slurping it down and then chucking the plastic bottle in the back of the car. Those little bottles soon add up. I looked in horror this evening and felt a tinge of regret blush my cheeks. I felt like one of those alcoholics when the truth hits home when they hear the rattle of the voddy bottles when they put the bin bags out. I feel bad because I've heard through the grapevine that these little bottles don't get re-cycled. Apparently a big container ship comes over with cheap jeans from China unloads dockside and then gets refilled with all our plastic bottles. These then return and get burnt in some village in the far east. A thick toxic cloud forms which in turn falls down as acid rain and much more besides. So you see, a little de-tox can have monstrous repurcussions. Think on, do you really need that echinacea?

We had hailstones this morning in Eastbourne, hailstones! On Bank Holiday Monday, not happy. Yesterday we had a nice day, the Ladyfriend and I took to the seashore, I played in the rock pools and watched as shrimps dashed away from my monstrous hands as I shook their world inexplicably - where was there God now? I thought.
I flew my kite (provided by Sally Swift Photography - for all your photographic needs) kicked the football into the sea by accident, but accidents don't wash with the ladyfriend when it's her shoes that get soaked trying to retrieve it.
I did have a thought though when I was picking up shells (by the way I found two bits of seaglass! Two bits! They are as rare as hen's teeth now people have got all environmental. Time was when you would be able to find lots of nice tide worn glass but not now people take their litter home) ANYWAY, my thought. Pebbles are the only things that look nicest when they are wet. When taken home all dry they loose their beauty, paint looks nicest dry, when decorating you always say "you wait till it's dry it will look great" so does hair, I saw a lady in a fish and chip shop with wet hair and it look unseemly. So there's my thought.

I'm a little bit country and that's why I can't hack this A40 commuting lark. I'm not cut out for the bumper to bumper. This week has been a bit of a shlop on the Westway. I have had these little landmarks which I reach and breathe a sigh as I pass them. I've had the Hoover Building (my favourite building actually) then the big inflatable puppy on the Vangaurd Building but the one that has got on my tits the most is the Marks & Spencer's advert with that stroppy model in black, not Twiggy but the lanky one.
She's wearing some outfit put together by the nimble and exploited fingers of children, she's being paid an eye watering figure but she's got a face like a slapped arsenal fan. I don't like it one bit, it's not something you want to look at at 8.15 in the morning whilst you're being shunted up the jacksy by a clapped out Ford Cortina. It's not just any old ride to work, it's a long, tiring, irritating drive to work.

I feel like Marlon Brando when they lifted him off his death bed with a crane. It's amazing what being office bound does for the figure. I was flitting about here and there before this tempting temping and now I sit like a little Buddha tapping away at a computer all day. The Michelin Man looks positively anorexic next to me. I'm trying to walk about more but the loo isn't far from my desk and the men in ASDA's will be tapping me on the shoulder soon if I skulk about too much on too regular a basis during my lunch break. Hey fatty bomb bomb.

I have tried to encourage all manner of birdies into the garden, I have put out the right kind of seed to lure them all in and by and large I have had a great deal of success but two species still allude me, the Yellow Hammer and the Bull Finch. Guess what I saw today as I queued to get off of the motorway? There amongst the bottles, cans and fast food debris was a bloody Bull Finch. I was rather annoyed. What is it about a noisy, polluted road that's better than my garden? If I could have run the bugger over I would have. By the way Miss BBC with the Yellowhammers like confetti, I've lost your email, write to me and let me know how you are getting on with the breakfast show lola@lifeforlola.co.uk

A merry month of May indeed - Happy 70th Birthday (today) to Super Step Dad and Happy 1st Birthday (yesterday) to nicest niece Amy. If that isn't a reason to open something cold and bubbly then I don't know what is.
Work Update: I'm sort of free lancing, although I have not been asked to joust yet, it's in a riffy part of London and my lunchbreak is one of terror. I sit in the car in the carpark of Asda eating slimey white sliced bread sandwhiches with one eye on the clock and another on the general public (which are generally nasty looking). I slam the door locks down tight shut and keep the window open only a fraction so they can't slip a knife through. It's going well. I get to work from home on Thursday and Friday, I get to toil in my terry towelling dressing gown.

Wow, last night I got back to nature. The Ladyfriend and I went out with Miss Diane and on her recommendation we took a visit to Christmas Common to see the bluebells. I was quite taken aback to see a riot of blue as far as the eye could see, and the smell, my goodness, it was like falling into an old lady's knicker draw full of packets of scented liners bought by grandchildren every year because she made the mistake of saying she liked it once.
It was nature at her most brazen and jaw dropping. It was dusk and the woods were alive with the chatter of wildlife and deer ran amok as we trampled twigs underfoot. It was the highlight of my week and I have no hesitation in saying that. It pays to get back to nature, it's the cheapest form of alternative therapy going. What a sad life it would be indeed without the sound of the wind through a thousand trees.
What topped the evening off was fabulous Greek food which I had always thought was a contradiction in terms. It was a smashing little place in Henley....actually, there were no plates smashing, hmmm......anyway, it was fantastic, the whole evening was fantastic. A tip top Thursday.

I have been up a ladder, I've been painting and because my position was one of elevation the aromas of late spring crept through the open windows and right up my hooter.
Sadly 'her next door' has also been making the most of the sun. She was flopped out caked in chip fat trying to capture a tan. She's eighty a day and instead of the scent of lilac bushes floating in from the garden I got fags, it felt like I was trapped on the beaches of the Costa Del Sol in high season.Horrible.
The warmth of the last two days has brought out a couple of my roses, the grass has leapt like a springer spaniel and the birds have made short work of the bird bath - I am having to top it up regularly with one eye out for the water board.
Talking of birds, we have had a white racing pigeon squatting on our bird table. It won't go away. It's pure white. I am not so sure what to make of it. In some cultures it could mean something sinister like a death on the cards, then again it may induce a win on the scratchies. I am at a loss.

Oooh, I didn't tell you. Lola became a shop girl on Saturday. Before you leap to the wrong conclusion I'm not a till tart, things have not got to that stage yet. I have not applied to the greedy superstores and anyway, I've enforced sanctions with Tesco and the Ladyfriend has too. No, when we went to Hastings we were standing outside a junk shop admiring the, well....junk when the owner looked us over and said "You look like nice people, could you mind my shop whilst I pop out?" I wasn't even wearing a Kath Kidston neckerchief.
So we did it. I was terrified that 1: Someone would shoplift and 2: That something "zany" would happen and I'd end up being filmed for some awful Saturday teatime telly programme presented by a fat girl from Emmerdale Farm. Ofcourse none of the above happened. But it could have. She didn't pay us. She didn't even offer us any junk.

What a weekend, weather was a real treat. The Ladyfriend and I motored along to Birling Gap which is between Seven Sisters and Beachy Head and at low tide is quite phenomenal. You aren't allowed to take pebbles off of the beach as they need everyone of them to protect the cliffs from erosion.
At low tide the sea retreats to reveal an almost lunar landscape of rock pools and boulders. I had my shoes and socks off quicker than you can say slippery sea weed and I was splashing about in no time. It was as warm as bath water, well bath water which has been left for half an hour or more whilst you speak to someone on the phone but warm no less. I can't wait for May 27th, it's national low tide day when the sea goes out the furthest it will go this year, it's speshall and I have my net and Observer Book of the Sea Shore at the ready.

Had my hair 'set' today, I felt ever so tired. The last time I popped in for a do I was bright and bubbly but it was as much as I could do to tip my head back into the basin. I did enjoy having it conditioned though, it is nice when they do that slow rubbing kind of massage thing with their fingers. I could have drifted off to sleep there and then.
On my drive home the sun was high in the sky and there were no clouds to speak of. I popped on my Pink Martini cd and I motored off along the road, stopping here and there for roadworks and the occasional slow cyclist.
A breeze knocked off the blossom from a tree and for a moment I was bathed in a storm of petals to the sound of 'sympathetique' it was quite moving, almost like a Fellini film although I wasn't dressed for such an occasion - but then, who of us ever are?

During the weekend the Ladyfriend and I went to an old priory which had a Celtic open day, you know the sort of thing, people dressed up in itchy looking costumes whilst wearing Adidas trainers, buggering about grinding corn in reconstructed wattle and daub huts. We had a nice time and the weather was kind, we walked around the moat and I noticed how well behaved the children were. There were no tears, no shrill shouting to break the peace of the day and no swearing. They were all happy making clay animals, chucking pretend spears at wooden cut outs of invaders and generally carrying on in a nice way. Perhaps New Labour should encourage this sort of thing in deprived areas of London, bring mud huts to the masses. At one point I saw a mother and child bent down in the long grass, 'oh' I thought 'how horrid, she's going to let her go for a wee infront of us all and put us off our ice cream wafers'. But no, the mother said to her child 'look darling, can you smell that? It's wild garlic' Lola was pleased, perhaps there is hope after all.

I've been a long, long way away - not like Celia Johnson - just down to Eastbourne, glorious Eastbourne but away all the same. The weather has been rather dreary on the coast but the Ladyfriend and I made the most of things. Welcome news was the Wayne Rooney foot thing. I for one will find the World Cup all the more easier to watch without him there. I have always said that I suspect a touch of Downs in the lad and find it a little off-putting watching him dribbling down the touchline. Also, I expect he would lose his temper and get sent off and it will all go down to penalties and we all know that way lies ruin. All we need now is David Beckham to slip a disc and we might stand a chance of winning.

I've been doing a bit of stripping, well it passes the time and let's face it, what's a girl like me supposed to do to get through the day? It's kept me off the streets and out of Sainsbury's which can only be a good thing in anyone's book.
I'm decorating the kitchen and have been happy slappy with the paint stripper and positively possesed with the sander. I'm covered in dust though, and you don't want to know what's coming out of my nose. I stood in the middle of the kitchen after attacking the walls and when I looked in the mirror I thought I had seen a holy vision only it was me, white as a statue of Our Lady. I nearly dropped the power tool on me foot in shock.

Well the Bach Flower Remedy worked, I felt a lot more confident, thankfully I was nothing like Spud from Trainspotting, that would have been one for the memoirs. Plus I didn't say "girl power" like Daisy from Spaced although a moment did arise when I could have done.
I liked the job very much so fans of Lola must unite tonight and mention me in your prayers, I'm sure you could squeeze me in between some long distance cousin and an incontinent old aunt, go on, please, pretty please.

Tits crossed everyone, I'm about to leave for my next interview. I have taken to relying on the spiritual. My horoscope for the week says the harmonious alignment from Venus to Jupiter suggests I'm about to get it right once again and I'm not to feel too ashamed of my success. Is Jonathan Cainer singing from the same hymn sheet? I've also necked a bottle of Bach Flower Remedy and have hung a dreamcatcher on my nancy so we shall see how we go.

Oh dear, that didn't go too well. I arrived far too early in an attempt to beat the traffic and as a result I slid along the M40 like a hot knife through butter and had a whole bloody hour to kill. I did see three parrots up a tree whilst I sat in a pub car park which was quite something.
Anyway, found out the terms and conditions of the job which were monstrous and quite Dickensian. Had I accepted such a position I think I would of ended up paying them for the pleasure! What with 16 days of holiday, frowned upon half hour lunch breaks and a Stretch Armstrong style working week I'd heard enough. By 12 O'clock I'd packed away my glasses and slung my bag over my shoulder and made my excuses. Lola was off.
Another interview tomorrow, will the pleasure never end?

I am to dip my toes in the pool of work tomorrow but I must say I am rather reluctant to roll my trousers up. We shall see how it goes. It's only a trial, I may not like it, they might not like me. It might go all a bit Norman Wisdom and I'll burn down the office just by sharpening a pencil. Who knows.
I did see a tempting advert for lock keepers on the Thames. It's a seasonal job where they employ people to open and shut the locks for the boats, lovely and in the open air. I was a bit worried however that on the lazy stretches of the Royal river it might all get a bit Brokeback Mountain. The Ladyfriend wouldn't like that.

The dreaded interview today. It seemed to go ok. They seemed keen. They have asked me to go in for a trial day next week which plays nicely with my eeking out my leisure time. I don't like interviews. I tried to imagine them in the nude which only made the whole experience even more ghastly.
Had a lovely weekend. Howard was over from Spain so we took him down to Eastbourne to show him the sights. We also made sure he was fed with some nice steak and ale pie, good food, not like that spanish nonsense, greasy old rice and wiffy wind blown ham. That stuff looks like something your Grandma has dropped whilst eating her tea and rolled under the telly.

Normally I'd be sat at my desk poised and ready to go at 9am (well, I probably wouldn't be poised but I'd certainly be at my desk) today however I was sat having my hair set at the salon. I can now bounce along the pavement happy on the outside as well as on the inside.
I've lined up a few lunch dates for next week, sorted a few things out in the household management line, surfed a bit on the internet and the rest of my day is very much my own.
Whilst on my way to the hairdressers this morning I saw a large group of people getting onto a coach. They were probably off on a nice trip to the coast. They were of pensionable age so they had probably been awake since four this morning making thermos flasks of tea for the journey but I was sorely tempted to hop aboard myself. I'm sure I could of stolen myself aboard with a flowery story about health and safety. It's such a nice day a trip to the seaside would be just the ticket.

It's another beautiful day. On the way home from dropping off the ladyfriend at work I took the long way home. The sunlight danced across the windscreen and toyed with my window wipers. I pulled over into a cul-de-sac when I realised that I was holding up a train of commuters - how remiss of me, I forgot! I then carried on passed the Thames, along winding country lanes, by freshly churned fields which reminded me of bolognese mince. It gave me inspiration for tonight's tea - lasagne.
I then popped into Sainsbury and tip toed around the aisles stuffed with fresh produce, yummy mummies and old people. I stopped for a Vanilla Latte and negotiated my way out of the car park - Observation: people who don't work can't drive.

I say, this redundancy lark is certainly what it's cracked up to be, infact it's better! If the unemployed entered the olympics they'd play the theme tune of "This Morning" as the national anthem. Breakfast tv is now a foreign country to me as I don't switch on until 10am. What decadence. I dropped the ladyfriend off at work this morning and grinned at all the 9to5'ers as they hurried about in their cars.
I would have enjoyed my first week of being out of work more if I hadn't developed a flu like virus. It reminded me of when Victorian explorers discovered African tribes and brought them the bible and the common cold. My re-entry into the real world has made me susceptable to infection. I am having to go easy as I travel about.

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.

The Ladyfriend is a Great Aunt! Angela had the wee baby Oliver on Saturday and we now have an excuse to buy Subbuteo players, scalectrix and go on trips to the Natural History Muesum and look at the Dinosaurs....some time yet ofcourse, but it doesn't hurt to prepare.

To celebrate, the Ladyfriend and I went to the Royal Standard of England for dinner last night. It was fab, it's the oldest inn in England (but don't they all say that?)It's riddled with woodworm and ghosts and I love it. We had the lamb.

When we got home we stank of smoke. Not the ciggy stuff but the chimney stuff!

I've been a bit slack with my updates lately. I've had lots of pressing matters what with the looming redundancy. I'm taking stock and all that and wondering which direction to take my life in. I've toyed with escaping to the far east but decided Norfolk wasn't all that interesting, not to mention flat.

I'm taking the Ladyfriend off to Italy for a treat, which will be nice. I'll bring back a nice slab of parmigiano in my Samsonite and a few jars of sundried this and that. But other than that I have no great plans.

The Ladyfriend and I are both on tent hooks waiting for the baby to arrive. Angela, The Ladyfriend's niece, is heavy with child. She normally weighs as much as the Christmas Edition of the Radio Times and is feeling the strain of an overdue baby. We can only circle like sharks waiting to swoop with teddies, cigars and "coochy coos."

Had luncheon today in Kentucky Fried Chicken. Young Matthew Z is leaving us and to celebrate we got our chops around Colonel Sanders. Whilst there I had a blast with the past. Julie of Julie and Norman was there with her young children! I worked with Julie in McDonalds in my youth. Aaah, those lost months flipping burgers were perhaps not the happiest of my life but they were exceptional fun.
On our way there I had a bit of de ja vu, I wonder if that was the fates blurring the edges of my past with that of my future - Matthew leaving it, bumping into Julie - weird. Perhaps not.

I've been gripped watching the Winter Olympics, especially that poor Chinese bird falling flat on her, well, you know in the ice skating. I was saying to the Ladyfriend how refreshing it is to have something on the telly that doesn't involve celebrities prancing about, house renovation or the contents of fat people's stools. Infact, I was waiting for a number to flash up on the screen with "Which couple would you like to see win the Gold Medal? Ring this premium rate number NOW"

I have news, I am not to be left on the shelf afterall! I can raid my bottom drawer, I am to marry! I won't be living over the brush for much longer. The ladyfriend's got whiff of my redundancy package and she's not letting go.

I did not mean for the last post to sound so down in the dumps. I'm not in the slightest. It was my intention to end it on a high note but I was being hurried along by a pal at work so I had to press "send". I am jolly buoyant about the whole affair.

On Friday I had a whale of a time with the ladies at the races, the dog races that is. It was Rachel's birthday (top) and Kelly Young (left) Lofty (open mothed) the Ladyfriend (blue scarf) and me (special needs hat) lived it up down the track. It was a rollercoaster ride of emotion as the patter of tiny feet kicked sand in our faces and lined our pockets. We inted to do the Bingo next.

Had a eureka moment in the bath this morning. A couple of weeks ago I made the mistake of saying out loud that I was "Happy". The Ladyfriend said "now you've gone and done it" And she was right. I am now feeling the cold blade of redundancy about my throat.

It's not a terrible thing, there a far nastier states to find yourself in. But I have realised that life is not about striving to find happiness because it's not something that you can keep. Happiness is like cupped hands of seawater which dribbles between your fingers until it is gone. No, strive to find unhappiness and you'll be laughing till the day you die.

Ooooh what a bitch. I've never warmed to the fat tongued lisping cow and I'm very rarely wrong. Look what's she's written here. May she never work in daytime tv again. Mind you, what does she actually do? I've only ever caught rare appearances with her surrounded by the debris of people's homes. Oh well, she's in for the high jump now, think Donna Summer and double it.

Walked by the office where once a picture of the Queen adorned the tea room, it's been changed to one of those peculiar shots of a city skyline, possibly American, at night with offices lit up. What kind of impression is that supposed to make? What kind of spirit is that supposed to stir as a worker stirs his sugar? Pride? Adoration? I don't think so. Shame on them.

I see no one has splashed out on a Figaro for me. Do you think I was too grabby?

I don't want much. I shun the latest mobile phones, fashionable nic nacs, widescreen tvs, Ipods, games consules, computers etc, I see them for the Devil's trinkets that they are. I lust after nothing, my happiness does not hang on material things......except.....The Nissan Figaro. I WANT ONE. I don't mind which colour or shade, I just want one. When one drives by I stare slack jawed, I feel like Mr Toad when he sees the motor car which has upset his lovely yellow cart, "poop poop."
Modern cars are usually the designs of the retarded but the Figaro, it's something amazing. Now, who knows who reads Lola? Perhaps a rich old lady who lives alone, childless in a mansion is reading this. Perhaps she tunes in every day and her only source of joy is my modest little life. If this is you, get in touch, buy me a figaro and I'll take you for a spin when you like. I can drive you down to the coast of a Sunday. Perhaps we could dip in and out of London town, you could revisit the places you went to during the Blitz. You can tick the box for no publicity!

I've picked my bush. On my way to work I like to track the seasonal shift. I watched over the weeks as a tree blazed with fire during the autumn months and then let go of its leaves like a pensioner's shopping. Tins of carnation milk rolling into the gutter and a copy of the News of the World whisking away on a stiff breaze.

Anyway, this morning I saw a bush, just hard naked sticks with tight buds at the end of the sharp points. "That's it" I thought to myself, "I'm having that". Each day as I pass by I shall look at it and watch as nature works its miracle. In a few months time it will be lush and lovely, home to insects and the occasional empty coke can.

I ask you all to pick your bushes, trees or shrub and lets all have a gawp as mother nature dons her beret and smock and sets to with her paint brush and palette.

I've been having rather a lot of peculiar flash backs. I've just glanced at the contents of Lofty's bag which contain clothes and I have remembered taking my costume in for the Christmas school play in the 1970's. What's that all about? One day I am sure they will be able to link brain waves to a machine which will then be able to play out your memories on a tv. That would be nice....I suppose, as long as your childhood was as happy and carefree as mine.
One technological leap I can not wait for (and I don't mind if someone pinches the idea) is a web cam/hologram thing where you can sit at home and at the click of a button you can be sitting at home with friends who are far flung around the globe. You can have a perfectly nice dinner party with your friends, chatting to them etc but really they are just holograms, a bit like Princes Leia in Star Wars when she leaps out of R2D2 ("help me Obi Wan") only better. Imagine, it will be a boon to the agorophobic.

Waking up in the morning to the sound of birdsong, we are over the hump of winter. Although it is still dark and gloomy and Vitamin D is a precious commodity I know that it wont be long before the bulbs will be poking up through the cat poo in the garden, costumes will be made for Jack in the greening (I'm planning Mr Tumnus this year), winter clothes will be packed up and lop sided Victoria Sponge Cakes will sit on trestle tables once again.
Winter isn't the winter you get on calendars with crisp snow and frosted branches, it's dull and turgid and dirty. There are no snow bunnies lollopping around my way. Bring on spring, I've had enough of cinammon scented candles to last me a lifetime.

I've been engrossed in this http://ditchmonkey.blogspot.com It's the diary of a nice man living in the woods in Oxford. I'm getting myself ready for my outdoorsy holiday in the Yurt in Cornwall. Two weeks living rufty tufty, fabulous. I am going to take my map of the stars and hopefully find some proper darkness in which to observe the heavens. We do live such pampered lives these days, ignoring the wilderness at our peril. As Morrissey once said "nature is a language can't you read?".

Went to Basingstoke last night to see Eddi Reader - cor it was good. I won't harp on because I always do but I can safely say it was blinding. Anyway, Basingstoke....

The Ladyfriend and I thought we might catch a bite to eat before the show. We walked out of the car park into the shopping mall from hell. It was like a huge maze of high street chain stores. We went in one direction after another and all we could find were shops, all we could hear were the squeak of our shoes on the floor tiles and all we could smell was air conditioned Basingstoke air.

We found an exit which spewed us out into a back alley, two hooded skateboarding happy slappers eyed us with enthusiasm so we nipped back into the Mall of terror. We decided to try and find our way back to the Anvil theatre in the hope of sniffing out some kind of food. The lights were low, infact off. They were having trouble with their electric. We could make out shapes of puzzled staff standing by the tea urn not quite knowing what to do as a crowd of fans began to form in the foyer. We foamed at the mouth as we saw the biscuits and maltesers. We were eventually let in and scoffed down a rather nice sandwhich and a packet of glacier mints but it wasn't the kind of theatreland the ladyfriend and I have grown used to.

I think someone has died. I have been walking by an office block since the summer and always have a butchers through the window. The way the blinds are set allow me to cast an eye into their tea room. Above the sink there has been a picture of the Queen. It shows her in a formal pose and some several years younger. It has been bleached by the sun and quite old. I used to imagine the workers saluting her majesty as they dunked their hob knobs. But now it's gone.

Quite sad really. I reckon the owner of the picture has passed over or retired. The rest of the office have probably been waiting for years for the old bugger to go so they could chuck Elizabeth in a bin bag. I bet as I write this they are mincing around IKEA for a replacement, something modern and garish. Bolsheviks.

Lofty and I have started a turf war. We feed the ducks at lunchtime and today we noticed that there were only a few when normally there are around forty of the little quackers. We like our ducks and the ducks like us.

I was a bit concerned that a Pied Piper had tricked them into the back of his van and they were half way across Eastern Europe to appear in a circus dressed as ballerinas smoking cigars.

We walked along the river a bit more and thought we might see them at the bridge. We did. We also saw an old man with a huge bag of bread. He looked at us and we looked at him. We all knew what we were all thinking. He won today's showdown but there will be other days and other loaves of bread AND we've got time on our side.

A bit put out this morning on my walk to work. What with it being January and thoughts turning to weight loss and all, I found my route peppered with other people. There was a woman infront of me which meant that I had to alter my speed inline with her. I didn't want to dawdle, but I also didn't want to mount a takeover bid, I could have got into a right pickle and ended up raspy. Also, a youngster was walking the whole route on the other side of the road. Now, this wouldn't be a problem to others but it was to me. I usually sing on the way to work, quite loudly. It cheers me up and puts me in a positive frame of mind for the day. I don't always know the words....infact I sometimes make them up....and I don't always know the tune....I very often make that up. So how could I carry on with an audience? I'm afraid my singing is very much from the same school as Elizabeth Fraser from the Cocteau Twins - very effective when I go under the underpass. I was snuffed out today, like a wet Swan Vesta.

I've had it pointed out to me that by mentioning the smell of care homes yesterday readers may jump to the conclusion that Lola has had a flirtation with mental illness. I have NOT been in care, let me state that now. I was referring to the many evenings in the nursing quarters of one of these establishments.

By the way Shelley, if you are reading this, do you know what's happened to Michael? And guess what? The ladyfriend and I are booking two weeks in a Yurt down your neck of the woods. Put something fizzy in the fridge for July!

Woke at five this morning and tossed and turned etc but could not return to sleep. I tried to count from 100 backwards which is supposed to induce sleep. It didn't but oddly I did start to recall moments in my life which I had long sinced not entirely forgotten about but had left behind. Thinking about it now it was probably because I was counting in the early nineties. So simplistic is my mind it obviously played word association. Events from the 90/91 period featured heavily. It was quite a busy time for me, people came in and out of my life like fluttering moths to a flame, burning their wings on my bombastic nature.

Smells of rented accommodation in Slough, Care homes, a flat above a fish and chip shop and the Fridge night club in Brixton came to me this morning. It all sounds very Andy Warhol but it wasn't quite that bad although there were a fair few peculiar individuals. I wonder where they all are now? Some have slipped along the conveyor belt and out of my sordid little life unnoticed and some have been ejected from my airspace by force. I may google some names to see what pops up. It makes me wonder, wouldn't it be nice to know that when we say goodbye to someone that it will be the last time we will see them? You can make sure that you've got that book back.

Whenever you're called on to make up your mind,
and you're hampered by not having any,
the best way to solve the dilemma, you'll find,
is simply by spinning a penny.

No - not so that chance shall decide the affair
while you're passively standing there moping;
but the moment the penny is up in the air,
you suddenly know what you're hoping.

I'm having a rather smashing Christmas. I've managed to consume enough calories to enable a cross channel swim, drank so much champagne my internal organs are floating in fizz and strangely, ignited a passion for jigsaws.

Fed up with the snow thing. We have not got an inch of the stuff. Everywhere else is covered in a blanket but we have escaped it. Honestly, there's more white powder on Kate Moss's toilet seat then there is in our garden. When I grow up I'm moving from this area of moribund weather. Scotland, Cornwall or the Lake District. If weather was music we get the stuff that is played in lifts.

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.....

I will go about my business during the next two days very carefully, I shall not ignore the carol singers' tin or collect debts from poor old ladies. I shall not scrimp on my gifts or turn the thermostat down when I get home. I don't want to be wake up to a strange apiration in the middle of the night.....

But I will just say one thing nasty - that Kate Melua is dreadful. Have you heard her? The juvenile lyrics, the god awful singing - she sounds like she should have had her adenoids out.

Last night she was on tv singing the Fairytale of New York with the Pogues which was quite a shocker. I loved Kirsty Maccoll so she was on shakey ground to begin with but my word it was god awful. Her limitations were laid bare like a dropped bag of rice on the kitchen floor, her flaws spilled out all over prime time tv and I hid behind my cushion. There, that's enough. Merry Christmas to all Lola readers!

I feel like a pickled onion ready to burst out of a jar and onto a Boxing day buffet. Like a shiny sixpence in a pudding, waiting to break an old ladies last remaining good tooth. I feel like a complicated puzzle nestling between a paper hat and the snap in a cracker. I feel like a sugar lump ready to be left by the fire for Blitzen. I'm very excited.

I know in a few days when I have eaten and drunk too much I will feel a bit like that cheap flimsy card that someone has sent you that you thought liked you a bit more. Or like the back end of a pantomime cow and look like the kid in the school nativity who came from the nasty housing estate who's costume didn't look any good.

Never the less, I am very excited and ready and waiting for Christmas to begin!

Four sleeps until the big day! Went to Tesco during lunchtime and my goodness the shelves are groaning under the weight of indulgence. I got shuvved in the arse by a trolley, I don't think I was in the wrong but one can never be too sure.

Schools are off now and don't we know it. The roads are flowing freely as if someone has taken their foot off of the hosepipe. Infact, as I walked to work all I could see were 4x4's parked badly in driveways. No school run for the yummy mummies this week!

It didn't make a lot of difference on the car fumes though. My walk to work is chocka with pollution. I may have the pins of Zola Budd but I've the lungs of a coal miner.

I am a lucky ducky. Last night the Ladyfriend took me out for my birthday treat (she was sadly under the weather last week and a night of celebration was kicked to the kerb and Lemsip replaced the Champers).

I was whizzed off to Windsor for ice-skating in the park. It was bloody freezing and although I have a keen sense of adventure I decided to forego a night on the ice. It did look very inviting though with the castle floodlit behind the rink.

We scooted off to Browns for tea instead and my word what a treat. It's been a long while since I have tasted such gorgeous nosh. I sank my teeth into a lamb's rump and wouldn't let go for dear life! I was spoilt thoroughly and had to be rolled out of Browns like Violet Beauregarde.

Wrapping presents and a bottle of Cava don't mix I'm telling ya. Yesterday the Ladyfriend suggested we get a bottle out of the fridge which she had won in a raffle. I frowned as it was not even four o'clock in the afternoon but I could see she was fraught and well it is Christmas and all.

It all went fine at first, I invented the "Plate of Tape". We do not own a tape dispenser and every year I get fed up with stopping to cut a bit of sellotape whilst holding down the paper and present with my left foot. This year I turned over a plate and sat and cut about ten pieces of sellotape and stuck them to it. It was my intention to pick off a bit of tape as I went along, dashing through the wrapping like a hot knife through butter.

It was a roaring success. Until the Cava kicked in. Then merry hell began. The Ladyfriend took over and started to cut tape for the "Plate of Tape" she wasn't cutting it on the bias and so the tape stuck flat to the plate. She fell behind with the replenishment and was getting all nasty with it, scoffing at my baggy ends and generally carrying on. I told her not to criticise the "Plate of Tape" as it was my invention and far better than what we have ever done in years before.

I wont need the plate of tape when I do her presents because she aint getting any now! I'm going to give them to the workhouse.

Sometime this week some University published a mathematical formula for wrapping Christmas present YxZ=X etc. All very useful I am sure but of no help to me, I am afraid I come from the last minute school of wrapping. I cut corners, rip tape with my teeth and slash the paper as though it were cut with a chainsaw. Any matching of pattern is by accident than design and tags are hastily attached and written with a flourish.

What I'd REALLY like to know the formula for is getting tree decorations to hang the right way round. Last night I was getting into a right old state as my little drummer boys span around to face the wall and not the audience. This morning I sat down to breakfast to the sight of a polar bear's arse in my face where I should have seen his cheery face and marvelled at his jaunty scarf. Hopeless. What goods a little fairy if all we can see is the back of her tutu?

Good grief it's hot. I'm sitting in the office and I feel like an extra from Tenko. Someone has been messing with the evil air conditioning and we're sitting in a micro-climate stuffed to the gills with foul odours.

Grabbed the Christmas Tree from B&Q last night. Couldn't be bothered with shopping around, time is money etc. It's now or never and so on. Grabbed a 6 footer and bundled it into the back of the car. Nearly had an accident backing out of the car park, I couldn't bloody see a thing and why walk out infront of a reversing car anyway?

The tree is now propped up in the garden wrapped in netting all kinky like. I shall haul it inside tonight and let it out of its bondage. I daresay it will be full of mice (we have a little colony in the garden) The birds rely on me for food, the mice rely on the birds to miss a bit, the cats rely on the mice to take chances and so the beauty of life goes on. So the house will be filled with the heady scent of pine and rodent piss for the next three weeks - happy holidays indeed!

Trotted off to the post office with my brown paper parcels at lunch time and was that a joy. It is only a small PO at the back of one of those "pile it high and sell it rather expensive" convenience shops but my goodness, the queue snaked back into the tins of mulligatawny soup!

There was a peculiar lady monopolising the counter (there was only one man on) completely oblivious to the grumbling masses behind her. We all stood praying she would bugger off. By the time she did wheel herself away there wasn't an ounce of Christmas spirit amongst any of us. I decided to skip buying my stamps and just send off my packages which are late as it is. I didn't want to cause any more trouble in the queue.

Off to find a Christmas tree tonight, it's a bit early but it's the only chance we've got until late next week when there will be nothing left or worth having. Wish me luck as I tackle the Nordic Spruce selection.

What a weekend. The Ladyfriend and I went off to Bath which was absolutely jam packed with shoppers. It took us over an hour to find a parking space. We went round and round until I felt icky sick. (I was hung over from the offic Christmas party where I must admit I was werry, werry drunk)When we were finally slotted in in the multi-story we found our lodgings for the night. It was in the "party end" of town and the website had warned that we may hear some disturbance in the evening due to the road outside. We weren't too worried.

We then went out for a light lunch (an organic burger from the Christmas Market, It needed a few additives, it tasted un-remarkable but filled a gap) my fingers retained the odour of onions all afternoon.

In the evening we popped out for dinner. It took us nearly an hour to find somewhere that would have us. We liked the look of a Thai gaff but were met with a nasty glare from the hostess as we tried to get through the steamed up door. I always thought the Thais were supposed to be a friendly race.

We managed to get in an Indian that looked more like a Wimpy over the bridge. It was alright.

Got back to the Hotel at ten as we were a bit wan. We entered the room to here a god awful din from the Slug and Lettuce pub/club below. It sounded like the speakers were in the room. The Tea and Coffee making facilities were rattling on the dressing table, the pictures were bouncing off the walls. Bath, the beautiful Spa town in Avon ? It was more like bloody Faliraki!

We sat watching Match of the Day - you couldn't sleep - praying the club didn't have a late license. Thankfully it tapered off at midnight. At half six the cleaners turned up and it wasn't light dusting. I lay awake listening to chairs being stacked and tables dragged across the dance floor.

It's my birthday today and I feel my age. I am at work sitting under the fall-out from the oil explosion on Sunday. I daren't go out because of the fall-out. I feel like a Raymond Briggs cartoon.

I've let my plates slip. I've been spinning too much and Life For Lola has suffered teribly. Work has loomed large in chez Lola and if it aint one thing it's the other.
I see a hefty bit of legislation has come through and Elton is to marry that fella in December. Hoorah for that. They are getting married at the same place as my favourite toff Prince Charles. I've always thought Reginald Dwight had a certain royal air about it.
The Ladyfriend may have to change her name too. I think she may have to become The Fiance but I can't find that funny slant over the E. French words make me sick. We shall keep her The Ladyfriend.
Talking of the old girl, we are off to Bath this weekend. We are going for a Christmas knees up in the pump room. I can't wait. There is a Christmas market which we intend to trot round. I dare say that we will end up buying some over priced nonsense from a shed festooned with lights. Those markets are all well and good but as soon as you show interest you end up being lured in and parting with large sums of cash. I bought some cheese from a Farmers Market once that blew a weeks housekeeping in one shot.

Out to din dins last night with Miss Diane. Oooh I did eat a lot. I am sitting here like a pate de fois gras duck. It's nil by mouth for me this weekend.

Miss Diane was telling us about the Cancun hurricane. She was trapped in the eye of the storm and suffered terribly. It sounded awful, I wouldn't have been able to cope, I would have been hysterical and have easily have gone to pieces. I would have been clapping my ruby slippers together faster than you can say "there's no place like home...." I'm not good in a crisis.

I've been on a midwinter break, I've had three days of holiday, holiday, holiday rock down at the Eastbourne bolthole. It was very nice and very productive. The ladyfriend and I now have 60% of our Christmas shopping. We are very pleased with ourselves. We have been trotting around the high streets of Sussex with wind on our heels carrying packages tied up with string, turkeys slung over our shoulders and bags of nuts in our handbags. It's been an excellent beginning to our seasonal splurge at the checkout.

I've had this little habit of picking up discarded shopping lists. The Ladyfriend has had to suffer me running to grab trolleys where a list has been left on the mini clip board. I take great delight in reading what people have been after. I've always planned to do a website of just that thing, pages of lists torn from spiral bound pads, backs of envelopes and small bits of card.

Today I found this one in Marks and Spencers (fabulous mince pies by the way) it was left at the end of the check out. I reckon the shopper is a lady (nice writing) is doing something Asian/Thai (coconut cream) and is having some girls from work over to dinner (food - picky, crips - nibbles).

I see there is no booze, although two cartons of orange juice may suggest there may be a bottle of vodka in the cupboard. The nappies also suggest a baby may be involved. This is more fun then I first imagined!

Ooooh Email is still on the fritz. The poor girl in IT is close to tears. She has been fielding fraught telephone calls from all over the company and locking her door because all of the mad women who think that she might be able to get theirs to work and not everyone elses. We have had a skeleton kind of system that has worked and then gone down again. A bit like a passing ship in the night, we get a quick glimpse of a light and then it floats off again into deeper waters.
I did manage to pick up a couple of emails and noticed one from Justin! I do hope you are reading this Justin as I can't reply to your mail! Thank you for your nice comments. In answer to your question it is a Konica Minolta Dimage Z2 Click here for a link. I shall reply to you as soon as I can!

It's fabulous. The email at work has fallen over. Obviously it's not nice for some people, but for me it has become a very liberating experience. Each morning I "send and receive" and then spend an hour or two correcting mistakes, answering odd people's queries and generally carrying on because of my stuffed inbox. Today, I have shot along like someone on a bobsleigh. I've had no amusing "Fwd" emails of people damaging their genitalia, no "Please send me £5,000 because I'm Columbian" and no work related Word Documents (I hate Word Documents)
So it's a day of celebration for Lola, I hope it's broken all week.

I must say I'm loving this cold snap. I do like weather that the body can react to. I was walking to work yesterday bundled up like Paddington Bear and I cold feel my legs burning as the cold air hung on them.

The Ladyfriend and I are off to see Clare Teal tonight. We like her, girl with a good pair of lungs. A downside of cold weather though is big coats at concerts. I don't like people who put chunky outdoor clothing on the back of their seats. Gloves sticking out of the pockets and scarves drapped so I tread on them. NO, coats and concerts don't mix.

I've been handed a menu for the work Christmas Lunch. I have to make a choice. I've been in turmoil. I can't have the cod loin because we aren't supposed to be eating the endangered fish. French Onion soup with a crisp baguette will mean showering everyone with bits of bread, the vegetarian option is always a dissapointment and the Turkey dinner seems predictable.

I'm not good at eating in big groups. I get used to the pace of a meal with family and friends. What if I eat too fast? I will be branded a pig, if I eat too slow they may question an eating disorder! I may have to cry off, and conjur an excuse not too attend.

Tonight in High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, Basil Brush is switching on the town's Christmas lights. He is starring in panto there and is naturally the top choice to press the button which will illuminate the dingy town during the festive season.
Lofty and I were looking at his photo and both remarked on how clean he looked. As he has been in the business since the 1970's he has kept himself in shape and not let himself go at all - not like some I'd care to mention.
We wondered to ourselves whether somewhere there might be a huge case of lifeless Basil Brushes in various states and poses waiting for their chance to go on. We decided this was a daft idea and, like Father Christmas, there's only one Basil Brush.

I am well and truly alive with Christmas. I am pulled ever forward into the festivities which each passing hour. I feel like a bull at a country auction, trotting around the showring with a ring through my nose.
I have been looking into my gifts, I like to give the unusual, I do enjoy putting something odd into peoples laps. I have begun in earnest, trawling the internet to bring Christmas cheer.
I don't know if I shall make a cake this year, I didn't the last, infact Nigella should give me a wack about the head with a baking tray for being so tardy. Time it seems has had the better of me. I prefer instead to look at others in magazines icing their cakes and trimming trees with home made decorations. I was reading Country Living last night, marvelling at the people in it and their industry, ofcourse the pictures were taken in June but that's all by the by.
This year I may make some kind of arrangement with nuts and driftwood, it will probably ending up looking like something from the Blair Witch Project and knowing my luck it won't be just Santa's eye I'll be attracting!

Atlast! Cold weather! A cold and frosty morning! Temperatures plummeting, scarfs and big coats, real weather. I was so cheered this morning as I heard people outside scraping their cars that I sprung out of bed with great vim and vigour and looked at the grass bejewelled with frost.

For the last few weeks I have felt decidedly out of sorts. Normally by now I am fizzing away with Christmas delight and expectation. I remember as a youth I would play my Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass Christmas album in October. But I have had not a flicker of fairy light in my eyes. I have poo pooed Christmas magazines, refused to look at those catalogues that come with the Sunday Papers and I have generally been sucking on a big bah humbug. But that was until this morning.

As I sat in the car and watched as the ladyfriend de-iced the car I began to feel a whoosh of seasonal joy come over me. I do believe it is all down to the snap of Jack Frosts fingers. Hooraay for his icy digits!

I've just managed to find some time to download the pictures from Lewes on Saturday and thought you might like to see how simple country folk spend their autumnul evenings - shove 'appeny it aint.

I'm on dial-up at home and am shocked and stunned at how fast the internet connection is. I reckon everyone has jumped ship and bought broadband leaving the internet highway clean as a whistle for the likes of me!

It's like this digital tv scaremongering, don't buy into it!

Had the displeasure of watching Fiona Phillips on GMTV this morning, she was given the job of interviewing David Cameron the Tory Housewife's choice. I'm sure the people at GMTV give her these high brow jobs to take the piss as it's car crash tv at its best.

She's a bit chummy with Tony Blair when he comes on her sofa so it was clear she was going to make David's ride a rough one. She jumped up and down like a six year old child with nits. Pulled the most peculiar faces, didn't let him finish a sentance and generally made herself look a bit of fool.

My favourite bit was when she put her foot in it with one of her fab quotes (I'm sure if they made a littl book of Fiona Phillips quotes it would sell like hot cakes for Christmas) She said something along the lines of "David, you're well educated and have done well for yourself, what makes you think you've got anything in common with our viewers?" She sat there looking smug yet she had just trashed everyone sitting at home on their DFS sofas. Marvellous.

My favourite Fiona quote though was after the death of Princess Diana, they were talking about her death and were showing pictures of her and Dodi on a speedboat.
There was a lull in the conversation and she said "well, atleast she had a nice holiday before it happened".

Wow. I've listened to a few near the mark jokes in my time, I've made a few right wing comments after a few glasses of wine and tutted as the European Union bring in more legislation which gets my back up but never, NEVER have I been a part of somenthing SO politically incorrect and so blatantly British in my life.
For those playing catch up at the back I am ofcourse referring to the Lewes Bonfire night on Saturday. It was amazing. People (including children) marched up and down a narrow high street carrying lit torches (flame not battery) raced barrels of fire over a bridge, dragged burning crosses to samba music and hung up banners saying "Down with papacy". The Ladyfriend and I stood in mouth dropping awe as something so raw could carryon in Blairs social engineered, mollycoddled England. And that wasn't the end of it.
When the street procession ended, each bonfire society goes off and does their own firework display. We went to the Cliffe one (thanks to Coo Coo Coo choo Mrs Robinson for getting the tickets) we waited for the fireworks to begin with hundreds of others in a damp, dark field. Opposite us stood a huge effigy of the Pope. Suddenly I could hear cries of "burn him, burn him" I thought this was for Guy Fawkes (surely the greatest example of why not to fall in with the wrong crowd) but no, it grew louder "burn the Pope, burn the Pope" and "let him burn!"
I expected a thunder bolt from heaven...afterall I'm walking on thin ice as it is...I felt like an extra from the wicker man. I felt alive!

Oh lordy, I'm excited, the Lewes bonfire night is tomorrow and I am champing at the bit to get to Sussex to see the spectacle. I'm going to take a camera but can't vouch for the quality of the pictures because ONE: Fire and nightime pics are not my speciality and TWO: The pubs open at 4.30pm. Hmmmmmmmm, we shall see. If I end up on Sunday morning in a farmer's hay barn smeared in mud with vague memories of morris dancing I won't be at all surprised!

I've been having an absolute mary at work and have not found the time to chit chat. I do apologise to you all, I don't want Madonna coming along and pinching all my readers - well, if she can nip in and pinch Kylie's crown while the poor girls on the backfoot she'll stop at nothing. I don't suppose she's sent Ms Minogue a basket of fruit do you?

Anyway, must dash. But before I go, does anyone else remember The Flashing Blade? I loved it but it seems to have passed everyone by, take a look at this link click here

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.