Jesus Christ. Exactly. The Ladyfriend and I have started a tradition of going to the pictures on Christmas Eve. It's nice. This year we have been looking at a suitable film and thought it might be Eragon but that has received rather bad reviews. Ah, we thought The Nativity would be perfect! Absolutely spot on. But guess what? There isn't a cinema in the area showing it. Not one. Nada. What's that all about? If ever there was going to be a captive audience then surely it would be on Christmas Eve. Shame on them all. If we don't watch out, next year Father Christmas will be wearing a hijab.

Had a lovely time in Amsterdam but the ladyfriend and I have decided to forgo any trips abroad in the future, I was frisked at the airport on the way out and made to shout "Merry Christmas" to a prancing fool at the airport on the way home. I think he was the dutch version of Cilla Black. I scowled at the camera so I imagine I am on the cutting room floor.

Things have been a bit rushed and just a bit much this week so I have not yet put up my photos - I've been ripped off by BP and slandered in court - it's a long story but I hope this will do: click here

Bluebirds sang at my window this morning as I greeting another dawn and another birthday! 36 and still with skin like a princess. I am 4 nines or 12 threes, whatever, I'm not the girl I once were though, I've grown in so many ways but mostly outwards.
The Ladyfriend and I are off to Amsterdam on Thursday to celebrate both of our birthdays, I can't wait, our hotel is conveniently placed for all the major attractions, the floating flower market, the museums and the brothels......not that I like art.
My brother took me to see Billy Bragg on Sunday at the Hackney Empire - what a place, a gorgeous old theatre in a run down part of town. It was a 'Rock against Racism' thing and a lady slapped my lapel with a sticker to that effect. A worthy cause, only something didn't sit right with me. Mr Bragg harped on about the benefits of a multicultural society and how the people of Daggenham who had elected the BNP should embrace their new neighbours from far flung places. A nice idea, thing is Billy has chosen to live on a farm in Devon where the only dark face that he probably sees is that of a fresian cow over a fence post so it's a bit of a 'do as I say and not as I do' thing going on there.
PLEASE NOTE: Lola is not a racialist and some of her best friends like reggae music.

There has been a tornado in London today. In the paper I saw a photo of a ski lift empty and lifeless in a normally busy ski resort. With climate change, will there be "snow in Africa this Christmas time"?

They only need 43 Jonathan, they could knock those off with a stick of rhubarb..."
Geoffrey Boycott on TMS

Can't believe the Ashes result this morning. I know it was a bit wet wanting a draw when winning is everything but to lose, well it just isn't cricket. It's time for young Flintoff to fall on his sword and give up as captain. The ladyfriend and I both agree that being the best player doesn't necessarily make the best captain. Infact, Freddie reminds me of an Edwardian farm hand taking over from the 'Gentleman' who has gone off to war. The only chance we stand of coming away from the Colonies with any scrap of honour is that by some miracle Michael Vaughan can get back on the field and take charge. I daresay we will not catch Michael in a sleeveless vest, hands in his pockets, sporting tattoos and an earing.

Lord I was off to a bad start this morning. I was anxious to catch up on the night's cricket so I put BBC1 on at 7am hoping that in the half hour that I designate to breakfast and 'coming to' I would see the score and highlights. Did I bugger. I grew a different shade of purple with every passing block of five minutes. Whilst that Bill Tumble (or whatever it is) was bumbling over a report about Russian spies I flicked over to ITV to see the final snippet of Kevin Pieterson - I was incandescent with rage. I gave up at 7.30 and ran my bath.
By the way, all this about Russian spies and radiation poisoning. Am I missing something? If what I'm led to believe from James Bond films is true, then passing away in a hospital bed is preferable to some of the ways these dare devil agents might meet their death. I saw one once where James Bond was tied to a table with a laser moving between his legs about to cut him slowly and painfully in half. I would therefore plump for radiation sickness any day. I bet he got a private room, digital tv and 24 hour care. I bet he didn't get a senile old man walking about at night trying to get into bed with him either.

A nice thing happened the other day. The Ladyfriend and I were in Debenhams, Eastbourne on Saturday as we had decided to nip up to the restaurant for lunch - a little known fact, I like department stores - anyway the food is served on the top floor just off of the children's department so we hopped on the escalator (I know it's not healthy but we were burdened with apathy) We were going up and in mid flight I turned around to see an Elf smiling up at me! I was slightly taken aback but then even more so as behind the Elf was Father Christmas! It was slightly unsettling but incredibly exciting at the same time. We watched later whilst we chomped on our chips as kids lined up to enter the grotto.

It is my opinion that the band The Feeling sound like an all male version of Voice of the Beehive.

From M&S With Love - Marks and Spencer

I want this record!

The Ashes have started and as we don't have prescription tv we don't get to see it. Instead we have to listen to snippets on the radio and read about our boys in the paper. I quite like it. It's a bit like the old days when world events like battles, earthquakes and the like took days to reach the public. Australia suddenly seems so very far away.

A weird thing happened today. I was driving to work and a ten year old school girl (I guessed) looked the spitting image of a girl I used to go to school with. It was a bit spooky but then I thought that perhaps it could be that girl's daughter, which could happen and she would have passed on her genes and all that. Anyway, I quite liked the idea. That was until I saw following being her ANOTHER girl who looked like another old classmate! It was bizarre. They were clearly friends too. I didn't like it. Were they the children of my old friends or are there limited permiatations of childrens faces? Or, did I slip through a wormhole into the past? Makes you think.

It pains me to say it but the Ladyfriend and I are really rather hooked on this "I'm a celebrity get me out of here" thing. We started watching it for Minnelli. You should have seen us poised at the telephone to make David suffer. Trouble is, now we love him and we love the programme. I feel I've let Liza with a Z down but let's face it, she let herself down on Parkinson - did anyone else see her do the sign language song?

A weekend of fresh air, oranges and a wee small baby. Yesterday we went off to Saville Gardens in Windsor for a autumnal forage. I took photos whilst the ladyfriend filled her trug with all manner of nuts, berries and fallen leaves : you can see the pictures by clicking here. In the evening we set off into the darkness and drove down to Swindon to visit Oliver the Great (pictured) who is gorjuice. Today has been spent catching up with my Christmas preperations, I have got a couple of oranges sliced and drying in the oven as I type in my wi-fi kitchen - thanks be praised to the neighbours. I read about a new way of reducing the juice and cutting down on oven time but I decided to ignore it, put my chops to it and sucked the slices instead.

Cubby Broccoli must be rolling around in his grave. I refer ofcourse to the new James Bond film. Why oh why is it not being released next year? Why could they not wait a couple of months and bring it out in 2007? Two double O seven? Madness, a marketing dream and they miss it. I daresay they will bring out the whole collection on DVD or somesuch thing next year but aint it a shame that they don't bring the film out then instead? I am quietly shaken....and stirred.

Suddenly the world seems a safer place today. God bless America.

They've opened one of those Primark stores in Eastbourne. It's a huge air hanger of a shop stuffed to the brim with cheap imported throw away fashion. Bargain basement bras etc. The Ladyfriend and I went and had a look on Monday. I didn't like it. There was something about it that made me think of cheap chicken. It was like a huge battery farm where poultry sold for less than the price of a couple of Blackjacks are bred. The rails were packed with the misery of cheap labour and groaned with the sound of the cries of the British manufacturing industry. We'll be sorry. Demand free range clothes, look for the Kite mark!

I've been under the weather. Full of infection, chesty and horse. At my lowest point I spent broken nights sleeping on the sofa flicking through an underworld of the strangest television programmes I've ever seen. I took myself off to the Doctor who was less than sympathetic, my symptoms mirrored hers and she was clearly of the school that if she could be at work so could I. She said "I'd offer you a Locket but I've only got one left" Still she was right, ten days since my darkest hour the infection seems to have gone. I'm left with the occasional throaty rattle which I can cope with.

That will teach me for 'going public transport'. My trip to London at the weekend has resulted in strep throat. I'm WELL mood indigo. I blame Red Ken, he should get out with a bucket of bleach. I'm taking the car next time.

Bit of a change to the plans this weekend. We started out on our journey to Eastbourne on Friday but the motorway was so choca blocka we turned home after an hour and a half, we hadn't even reached Heathrow, so it was a no go.
To make up for it the Ladyfriend and I decided to go up to the big smoke on Saturday and take a look at the 250 anniversary year celebrations of Borough Market. It was billed as a day of cavorting in period costume, trouble was it was so packed with 'foodies' it was completely indigestable, we were packed in like sardines so we were out of there like a shot. Shame really, I blame Jamie Oliver.
There are some photos here if you are interested in that kind of thing: click here

The F Word indeed

I am sick to the stomach, literally, of Gordon Ramsay. Is there nothing that man won't say yes to? He's in every tv programme going, DVD's, Books, magazines, dinner plates, I even saw a larger than life size cut out of the man in the window of Threshers! Stop. Enough. The man would even turning up at the opening of a fridge....
What annoys me the most though is that he has made some nasty comments about Jamie Oliver in the past and now old scar face is stamping his name on anything going, even his wife is getting in on the act....sound familiar?
By the way, I'm now being serialised on the Country Living website today!
www.countryliving.co.uk

Well there I was yesterday afternoon driving through the countryside coming back from the municipal dump where I offloaded splintered bits of kitchen and general household rubbish, I noticed a sign for a Farm Shop. Being a 'shop local' type of lass with ideas of chomping on peculiar sounding apples and gnawing on a tuber fresh from the soil I followed the signs with gusto (and the ladyfriend)
I walked into the farmyard where I couldn't move for poultry, they were free range more by accident than design, the place had an air of neglect. I found the shed/shop and walked in. Inside not only did I find the shelves groaning but also the shop keeper, her head was bent over the lollo rosso. "Are you open?" I asked "hrruuummmmph" was the reply. I began to 'browse' and she went out of the door. It felt nice to be trusted so I picked up a loaf of bread and some preserves. I was ready to pay.......but where was the lady?
After a few strained minutes where I didn't know wether to scarper I walked out and popped my head around a larger shed door. She was in there hacking at something with a HUGE knife, a sheep dog joined me and rubbed my leg with its wet coat.
Then I saw a young man coming from the farmhouse "Coo Eee" I said and mouthed "can I pay please?" I returned to the shop.
A minute or two passed and then SHE came back shouting "get out, get out!" I was mortified until I realised she was keeping the dog from coming in.
I thought at first she had had a stroke as she limped in and nearly went over "Are you ok?" I said I leaned closer and then I realised she was blind drunk, really, really drunk.
She looked at my shopping and tapped the numbers in the till one number at a time circling the digits with her index finger as she focused. She gave me my change with a bloodied hand. I declined a bag.

Tout for Lola

The good news, I was through like a greyhound out of the traps this morning and managed to buy three tickets for the Morrissey concert in December. The bad news, I was too hasty and my handsome big brother and his beautiful wife might not be able to come with me. I may be reduced to hawking them all on ebay. What will become of me? I'm not a natural shop keeper, what if there are complications? Shoplifters of the World unite and all that.

Watched the BBC ruin Robin Hood on Saturday, it was the pits. They've dumbed down the jolly tale, sexed up the story and ruined the plot. It wasn't broken, why fix it? let's hope they don't decide to 'do' King Arthur, they'll have him living on benefits in a hostel in Wolverhampton - all filmed in Eastern Europe by the way. What's wrong with Burnham Beeches? or better still Nottingham Forest.
The casting, Robin looks like one of those boys who are big for their age who smoke, spit and swear outside the doors of the corner shop. Marion looked like Vikki Pollard in full slap AND Keith Allen (who I can never forgive for bringing us Lily Allen - is it just me or does she have Downs Syndrome?) was terrible.
If I were ITV I'd bring back their version quick smartish and show them how its done. Robin, Robin, the hooded man, da da da dum. Oooh it was great.

Walls have ears

I havn't been much of a chatty Cathy of late, I've kept schtum. It hasn't stopped my thoughts or the voices in my head, was it something that I said? Am I Gloria, I'm always on the run now. Apparently hearing voices in your head is normal. Got to go, got nothing to say of any merit, I'm a bit like one of those boats at an amusement park where you put a pound in the slot and drive them round a stagnent pool. I'm the green one that no one wants which is stuck nose to the corner next to the floating fag butt. It's not a bad thing.

I'm being the strong and silent type at the moment, I think it's for the best.

On this Eastern European issue that's got the country up in arms (well the Daily Mail anyway) I was thinking about it on the way to work this morning. The Polish are working everywhere but seem quite nice people (if a little pale) and they don't seem to have troubled my lifestyle at all. The Polish deserve a life of comfort after their chaps helped us during the Battle of Britain anyway. Now the Uncle Bulgarians are lining up to invade I predict a riot but I'm not sure it's too bad a deal.
Give it twenty years when these funny sounding folk have settled down and bred into the mix I'm sure there will be room for everyone. I'm thinking ahead but anything that might fix my pension shortfall has got to be a good thing. We've been told time and time again that there will be more old people than young in 2000 and something so perhaps the smell of cabbage and dodgy brickwork might be worth it afterall, especially if it keeps me in a bag of cough candy and the Racing Post.

Had a smashing weekend. Amy, the nicest niece in the world, came to the seaside! She threw pebbles, ran amok on the promenade, collided with old people who didn't mind one bit, stoked dogs and played on the pier. It was fab. I loved it. You can't really top a day with a little girl who says "duck, duck" to seagulls.

One hates to book too far in advance but an Eddi Reader concert is the best reason to smash the piggy bank! I've been online and booked two tickets for February 2007! I have not booked in the stalls this time, I've plumped for a level back. Last time we were in the bloody front row and could see right up her hooter (if we had wanted to, we are too well mannered and averted our gaze to the fiddler's fingers instead) Anyway, that's that, a treat for the depths of winter when our wind and rain lashed cheeks will warm to 'ae fond kiss' (although I have had enough of the old Burns stuff)

I drove through a rather effluent area of the home counties the other day and in a rather expensive chemists (where you're more likely to buy Clarins than cough mixture) I saw advertised in the window a perfume by that remedial bint from Big Brother (the one that looks like a pig) Is she taking the piss? I'm not being funny but isn't the perfume industry fueled on image and the odorous glandular secretion from the male musk deer? Are people not normally hoodwinked into thinking that if they splash themselves in Chanel they're going to feel like Audrey Hepburn and not the stretch of water between the Isle of Wight and Dieppe? I know I am. When it comes to a bottle of scent from a mahogany counter in Selfridges or the shelves of Superdrug I know where I'm whipping out my Switch card. Hmmm, so I don't know how Jade Goody is going to fare. When I think Chanel I think of Audrey and Breakfast at Tiffany's, when I think Jade Goody I think of Breakfast at McDonalds.

Yesterday was fun, I went up to the big smoke. I went to Columbia Road flower market, Spittlefields and Brick Lane. It was amazing. Amazing because of the architecture. There were beautiful Georgian houses in various states of undress. Some were so shabby the rooftops had caved in and others stood in perfect condition. It took my breath away, they've been standing for well over a hundred years and look like they have no intention of going anywhere. There's so much history in every nook and cranny, every brick and window. Jack the Ripper used to knock about in the area and I felt like was on a film set for the best part of an afternoon. Looming in the skyline was the Gherkin building and it made for quite a juxtaposition. It pleased me. I plan to go again.

We live on a bit of a flight path, nothing nasty, the china doesn't rattle in the cupboard when the 7.45 to Amsterdam goes over (did I tell you I'm off there for a Christmas mini break? I did? oh ok) we just hear them as they make their way to and from Heathrow. It's quite handy really, whenever I get one of those mornings when I wake up too early and I struggle to get back to sleep, tossing and turning etc, if the silence is broken by a distant rumble of a jumbo I know flights have resumed and there's little point in sleeping as I'll have to get up soon anyway.
Anyway, moving on, we live on a flight path BUT this week we have had some interesting developments, it's not the polluting lumps of metal going over the rooftops that have grabbed my attentin but Geese - and lots of 'em. They make an amazing noise and are incredible timekeepers, like clockwork they form their positions and "yak, yak" much to my delight. This is the first year I've seen them do it on my manor and I'm cock-a-hoop.

I'm sitting in a hotspot in the kitchen - no, not on the oven hob but within a internet wireless network! Free broadband? Yes it is, and I've not signed up for anything. It's all a bit sneaky but I'm piggybacking on a neighbour's connection, I'm not sure who it is, but there is a toff a few doors up who looks like the sort who might have gone all wi-fi on us. I have been assured by those in the know that they wont find out which is a comfort. I don't have to sit in fear waiting for the knock at the door. I look like someone from the French Resistance at the moment surreptitiously sending this message whilst the threat of being switched off looms large. I shall have to pop something nice through their flap at Christmas to rebalance my Karma. (By the way Victoria - Just you wait a - Minett I believe I win on the mentioning Christmas front yet again) Right, I'm off to download a bit of Neil Sedaka.

The Ladyfriend and I are off the sauce. We have been on the wagon for a whole week, it's amazing what you can achieve without the stuff. Trouble is, whilst a detox is good for the body it aint good for the complexion. The tectonic plates of my face have shifted and several small volcanoes have erupted. Nice.
We have noticed the days grow longer without wine, on saturday night we normally open a cheeky little number but this week it was Corporation pop instead. By seven thirty we were restless, usually we are sprawled out watching tv but with new vim and vigour we decided to go OUT. We went down to the seafront. The promenade was alive with end of season holiday makers and day trippers, we went on the pier and shot zombies in the arcade, watched a huge moon float above the black sea and heard music at the band stand. Lovely.

The kids are back at school and what was once a pleasant motor to work has turned into torture. I have toyed with different routes but all of them encounter school children of every size and shape. Damn them. Damn there parents more so. There was talk of penalising cars with only one person in, I say fine cars that have children in, they are the ones causing the gridlock, pollution and carnage.
If parents want to school their children beyond the confines of a healthy walk then let them pay for it, whatever the Congestion Charge is in London so let it apply to the home counties kids. That will whip a few of those ludicrous people carriers off of the country roads. The parents can weigh up £100 a month or the holiday home and see where their priorities lie.
I don't see why the countries work force should suffer anylonger. Let school begin at 7am instead when I'm still tucked up in bed.

What exactly IS Sky tv for? The ladyfriend and I don't subscribe, we still get our visual pleasure from four channels - Five is fuzz. My Mum and Dad have Sky and we have spent our house sitting time going up and down the squillions of channels and have found nothing that we want to watch. If you like Will and Grace or Rick Stein you're laughing if, like me, you've had enough of effeminate chefs then you're buggered.
However, something that did catch my attention as I was flicking up and down was 'Decoupage for every occasion' it was absolutely insane but I felt myself strangely drawn. Fat people making greetings cards out of fiddly bits of paper, worth setting the video for.

Each day I have looked out at the back garden at my mum's house and seen a huge rabbit - not in the Donny Darko kind of way mind you - infact, I'm not sure if it's not a hare. It's all in the ears isn't it? Anyway, it wasn't there this morning but my word we had some weather last night. Autumn has most certainly laid claim to the land and I'm thrilled. The Ladyfriend and I were hit by a falling acorn yesterday, last night we watched the X Factor which we always associate with bottles of red wine and dark evenings AND as the preliminary rounds of that musical massacre began so too have our Christmas shopping lists!
Now, before you shriek, we have been looking ahead and wish to avoid the pitfalls that we always plunge into during the festive season. This year we have booked a long weekend away to Amsterdam so close to Christmas day that you can almost smell the brussel sprouts. We have no intention of panic so have decided to have the whole present thing wrapped up by the end of September.
We made a start yesterday. I have discovered a huge out of town shopping monstrosity close to where I work. Under normal circumstances I would rather poke my eyes out with a blunt instrument (like a trumpet or banjo) BUT this one is special it has a HUGE Borders book shop. The Ladyfriend and I went in there at 11, went our separate ways and met up in the Self Help section at 12.30! It is vast and, if you can avoid the constant 'laid back but incessant' badgering of the staff, a pleasurable experience. They have IMPORTED magazines, I was in heaven.

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!

Ok, hands up, who's missing Autumn? Who is longing for layers of clothing? The smell of the countryside rich with the heady aroma of blackberries, mushrooms, fallen leaves and smoke on the air? Who longs to feel the breeze toy with their hair? The sound of a cork being extracted from a rich, full bodied bottle of red wine, the rattle of a pan lid on the hob as the steam gathers in a stew, the thud on the carpet of un-solicited Christmas brochures. Oh me, me, me my hand is firmly thrust in this humid air, down with summer and it's oppression - up with dark nights and brooding skies!

I've got the mobile phone - which is why I have gone a little quiet over the last few days. It's ever so complicated, I can do everything except orchestrate world peace on it (although there may be a button for it somewhere). You should have seen me in the shop, I was putty in Brendan's hands. He bamboozled me with 'hip' terms, apparently I have got to 'rinse' my minutes - you tell me!
Anyway, for the techno lot out there it's an Ericsson K800i and I like it. The ladyfriend is at the end of her tether as our once indepth conversations regarding current events have dissolved into the odd grunt as I fumble with my ringtones.

Ah summer, you know when the kids are off when the traffic lightens, ice lolly wrappers are seen on the pavement and fields catch fire! Yesterday I returned from work to see the meadow behind my street reduced to scorched stubble. Little bastards. My heart stopped as I thought of the field mice scampering in terror as the flames swept across the hillside.
As we are currently in the middle of a heat wave we have had to sleep with windows wide open, last night the air was thick with the scent of charcoal, I woke up smelling like a packet of smokey bacon crisps.
Off to Eastbourne this weekend, the sea breeze will be just the ticket. I may have the luxury of an eight hour sleep.

I've opened up a hornets nest, I am perusing the mobile phone market. I need to go on one of those monthly things as calling the ladyfriend is racking up a bit, I'll not be able to buy myself life's small pleasures if I stay on pay as you go. Trouble is there are so many to choose between, do I want style or substance? Some of them are quite ghastly, I want something that will sit nicely in the pocket and not ruin the cut of my slacks. I don't want to do myself a mischief and remove my appendix if I sit down quickly, there's lot to consider.

It's shocking how a simple decision, something fairly innocuous, something moribund, something run of the mill can have such a devastating impact on other people's lives. I'm not talking about the choice of flying long haul and it's impact on climate change and the occupants of the rain forest and I'm not alluding to those northern people that decide to blow the housekeeping on the gee gees, and I'm certainly not going to mention the sort of choices poor Sophie had to make. No, I want to tell you about this morning....
...I arrived early to work and as I am not yet familiar with the area I decided to potter about in the motor and see where I might be able to score (not smack but snacks for lunch) I had plenty of time on my hands and it wasn't long before I had got myself a little lost and I decided enough was enough, time to turn around. I stopped the car, indicated and waited for the oncoming traffic to clear so I could pull in to a side street. The lady behind me stopped too. We waited. I pulled away only to hear a god almighty bang, a woman BEHIND the woman waiting for me hadn't stopped! Oh dear. I quietly slipped away leaving a scene of carnage.
So, my decision to leave too early for work ruined two people's day. It will drag on for months, insurance claims do. All because of me.

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.