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.

I'm glad I pulled out of Ulrika - www.bbc.co.uk/celebdaq

Oh what has become of me? Such is my addiction to the celebdaq I have actually bought shares in Robbie Williams and Britney Spears. I can sink no lower. I was like a demon this morning, scouring the internet for celebrity news waiting to get a scrap of insider knowledge on who to buy next. I caught a whiff of Britney's baby, Robbie's new album and it was BUY, BUY, BUY. It was only when I sat down on the lav when a strange fear gripped me and I realised I had crossed the line. I've turned into Zammo. Just say NO - too late! It's www.sky.com/showbiz, www.digitalspy.co.uk and www.gm.tv for me now. Bugger the Independent, it's the Sun and the News of the World I'm interested in (even if there is a Merchant Ivory DVD free - I'd rather a red top)
But, worst of all. Whilst I was trying to buy some Jodie Marsh this morning, I said some nasty things to Lofty who wanted me to trot along for lunch with her. The air went blue with my rage. Her face fell and then and only then I knew what I had become. Lunch is for wimps by the way.

And you really live by the river? What a jolly life!"
"By it and with it and on it and in it," said the Rat. "It's brother and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and (naturally) washing. It's my world, and I don't want any other. What it hasn't got is not worth having, and what it doesn't know is not worth knowing."

What a day I had yesterday. The Ladyfriend and I went OTT (on the Thames)for the most fantastic afternoon. We were guests onboard Miss Diane and Mick's boat and I sat atop with a glass or two of wine. We sailed up and down the Thames from Bourne End to Bray and I now feel like Mr Toad. I WANT A BOAT.

I took to my bed last night with excitement fizzing like the air bubbles of a trout through my mind. Oh what joy there is gliding along through locks, by grassy banks, sighting swans, ducks and kingfishers! The Ladyfriend has emplored me to calm down but she knows it's no good. I have another mistress and it is the RIVER.

Friday night and my wonderful mother is tucked up nicely in the Cotswolds. The ladyfriend and I are looking after the house, it's half ten, the dog has been out on fox alert and I am glued to Celebdaq. What has become of me? My Babs Windsor shares are rocketing and I'm going to make a packet. Join me in my addiction - go to the website and start trading - www.bbc.co.uk/celebdaq

I tell you what it has done for me. It's made me actually interested in the world of celebrity. I can't bring myself to touch Jordan, Robbie Williams or Britney Spears but I might finger a copy of Heat Magazine - purely in the interests of research ofcourse.

Anyway, got to go, the ticker tape is showing Ross Kemp alerts.

Sorry, I couldn't resist it, yesterday it was world alzheimer's day. Ho, ho. I suppose if you have to explain a joke it isn't that funny. And let's face it, it's a terrible disease. There but for the grace of God go I.

Actually on my way to work this morning several old memories crept in which I had long brushed under the carpet. I was singing a Cocteau Twins song (which is an effort in itself) it reminded me of my youth when I'd skip off to the West End with a chum, driving through the streets of London in a Fiat Uno (quite the very thing in those days)the lights streaming across the windscreen. Happy days indeed. I wonder what has happened the Mike Church? I last saw him on a float at Brighton Pride atleast six years ago. He was dancing on the back of a lorry with a couple of dolly birds. I wonder where he is? Perhaps I should google him.

I am addicted to the BBC website Celebdaq. I even belong to a league: http://www.bbc.co.uk/celebdaq/

Before I forget it's

Arrrrrr! It's talk like a pirate day today! Shiver my timbers! Click here for more. I nearly forgot and I had been looking so forward to it. I will go home tonight and make the ladyfriend walk the plank.

Have not got much time to explain but can we all cross our fingers for Matthew Szurgot and cross our legs for Lofty. I can feel the love in this room!

How odd. I now have ear ache in the other ear. Last Friday the nest of spiders were in the right and now they have travelled to the left. Imagine the terror they have gone through to get there. It must have been like the poseidon adventure. I wonder how many were lost on the epic journey? I wonder if a large spider (like Shelley Winters) saved the day before plummeting to her death along the ear canal.

Goodness me I've been lax. I've got emails I have yet to reply to, flagged up in Outlook as high priority (sorry Carol, it's just you deserve a good reply, not a quickie), I've not updated my blog like I should, the website is looking old - there is NO time! Where did it all go? Talking of time running out....
My pals and I went down to Tesco during our lunch break and on the way out of the car park an elderly lady was struggling but happily lobbing bottles into the recycling bank. I thought, that's nice. Clearly she did not have all that much longer left on the planet but she still cared about what happens to it. How nice.

Mind you, she could be mad as a hat pin and just likes the noise as the bottles smash. Maybe they were freshly bought bottles of cheap french piss which she had blown her pension on. "Pick it up it's yours" music to her ears and the shattering of glass even more so.

It's a good time to be English. The last few days have made one feel very proud to be born in merry England. The cricket, the ashes, singing "Jerusalem" without the threat of the PC brigade slapping on a gag (or printing the words in braille or gujarati) Waving the flag of Saint George AND parading our success through good old London Town....It brings a lump to the throat. Fantastic.

The cricket success comes after the Last Night of the Proms which is also stirring stuff. However, as I sat with the ladyfriend's nice nieces on Saturday night, I was a trifle concerned whilst watching the audience. Amongst the Union Jacks was a GERMAN flag AND a EUROPEAN UNION flag! What a shocker! I nearly spat blood. I am convinced that they were planted. No doubt by the BBC terrified that if Tony Blair switched on when he came home from the pub and didn't see Euro representation he'd cut the licence fee faster than you can say "Rivers of blood". They can do that you know with CGI, all that Walking with Dinosaurs malarky, infact I think I saw a terradactyl carry off a cellist.

I have a slight feeling of discomfort in my right ear. I've been wiggling it a bit but it's still there - a bit like Charlie Dimmock, never quite in your face but omnipresent.

I've a feeling it's a nest of spiders and when I am eighty it will suddenly burst and a colony of eight legged beasts will fall out onto the floor in Casualty. I dare say I will end up in the Daily Mail (although, in my heart of hearts I do hope by then the evil rag will be long wound up)

I do hope it's not down to the microwave. I have been rather naughty since Wednesday. Lofty has led me down the path of nutritional destruction and has been making bacon butties for me at lunchtime. The bacon is blasted in plastic packets and I have thrown all my principles out of the window (well I would but we work in one of those hermetically sealed offices where fresh air and opening windows are unheard of) and have been scoffing them down without a moments hesitation. Bad, bad Lola.

I have a new favourite band. The Magic Numbers are ace. I was allowed to throw caution to the wind on Monday and I bought their CD. The ladyfriend bought that Damien Rice chaps cd in Reading and, on our way home to our village nestled within the Chilterns, I got my treat in nasty nasty Tesco. I was listening to it last night whilst doing the cous cous (North African food - not yoga position)and I thought it was smashing.

I don't buy many cds these days. To be honest they don't make them like they used to, I don't know much about the hit parade, the names come and go like sailors in dockside back alleys. I've bought a little cd player for the car now so the long journeys can be filled with Elkie Brooks and Shirley Bassey.

Smashing day off yesterday. The Ladyfriend and I went for a little light shopping at The Oracle shopping 'mall' in Reading. We were quite taken aback by the amount of kids around, I had hoped they had all gone back to school but it wasn't the case. Actually, Reading is so Chav rough, they may well be back in class but had all bunked off. I felt for our safety, and kept my hand on my purse.

Ended the day pissed on white wine in the back garden(thank you Zoe) I've just done her website www.stayincapetown.co.uk and will be going to South Africa next year - I've never done long haul, preferring short trips to the continet so I am looking forward to it.
We watched slugs race across the patio, tracked bats as they flew into our airspace and watched the stars brighten. I can't actually remember getting into bed.

It's my brother's 40th birthday today and in celebration I have taken the day off work (well, it's a coincidence really but don't tell him that) What a milestone or perhaps millstone to reach. The Ladyfriend and I went to his 'do' on Friday night and had great fun dancing. It was not so much footballer's wives than reader's wives but it was fun. Miffed that my DJ request for Neil Diamond fell on death ears but you can't win them all.

Crack open the champers for I hear the death rattle of August. Tomorrow begins September and the onslaught of my absolute favourite time of year - Autumn. The smokey air, the bulging hedgerows, the wine, the game, jumpers, boots, leaves! Oh I am getting myself into a state just thinking about letting my onions sweat. The sun has been nice on several occasions and I did enjoy doing suduko on Eastbourne beach whilst mint choc chip dribbled down my arm, but I've had quite enough now thankyou.

Things look nicer in fresh clean light. I always think summer is like American TV clips on English telly. I think it is something to do with the NTSC system but it looks too gaudy and soft. Autumn is crisp like a sixties films - Breakfast at Tiffany's, Alfie, you get my drift. No, let the dark nights draw in....Autumn days when the grass is jewelled.

I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to start waving a placard and burning my bra a bit but I'm more than a bit ticked off at the BBC. Last night I joined the ladyfriend on the sofa who was watching that awful Ricky Gervais 'comedian' - I use that word in it loosest sense (am I the only person not to find him funny?) Anyway, I thought I'd stepped back into the seventies. Have the BBC gone so far with political correctness that they are coming out the other side?

What little of his programme I saw centered around making light of a gay man who was played in a camp stereotypical way. It pissed me off but I thought 'whatever' that's what straight people are comfortable with, it's how they like gay people on tv, non threatening, feminine (Graham Norton, Dale Winton etc).

After the programme, the Catherine Tate Show came on. In three sketches being gay was the butt of the joke. "Gay Boy" was one of them. I thought to myself, 'hang on a minute'. If these jokes were about being black, handicapped or women they wouldn't get an airing let alone be on prime time tv. I half expected the Black and White Minstrel Show to come on next! Why is it acceptable to prolong such outmoded humour? Will and Grace can do it without being offensive.

The irony of it all is, the funniest programme on tv was the one after all that drivel - "Absolute Power" which stars Stephen Fry, an out gay man who has never had to limp his wrist, refer to 'hiding sausages' or camp it up to appear on the BBC. Hmmm....

I may have to go and lie down in a darkened room but I fancy going to France. Not just a booze cruise which I believe is an ideal way to pop over and annoy the Frenchies with alcohol fuelled behaviour, blue language and the sacking of their supermarkets (why do we buy such big boxes of washing powder?)

No, I fancy exploring the Dordogne. I've been watching that Rick Stein on another BBC jolly and I must say he does paint a pretty picture. It's pretty villages are preserved in aspic and there is medieval architecture aplenty.

I'm sure Mr Stein is glossing over the rum side of France and giving it a bit of an H E bates makeover, he is quite possibly taking a kick-back from the French tourist board but he's doing a very good job. The ladyfriend and I are hooked. We fancy sinking our teeth into the arse of a five year old cow and washing it down with fine wine bought for 'pennies'. We'd best get a move on though, book the 2CV before the frogs lose their EU grants!

One of the highlights of the year has begun for the Ladyfriend and I. As the seasons begin to bump into one another, like two bobbing boats in a harbour, as Summer gently gives way to autumn, Saturday night tv gets good.

Ofcourse I say that with my tongue firmly wedged into my cheek. We all know that the only thing truly worth watching on a Saturday night is an ambulance which has turned up a few doors down the street (this happened this weekend by the way - I was up and down like a bride's nightie)

Saturday nights are now X Factor nights. There is nothing more entertaining than watching common people trying to make their dream come true. The first episode was tv heaven. A big ginger girl (when I say big - I mean big) was humiliated beyond all realms of decency. It was magic. She failed the xfactor audition and wept inconsolably whilst clutching a picture of two children which I presumed to be hers. She was afterall 18 and if they weren't hers she was leaving it a bit late.

Her family pleaded on their knees for the judges to accept her on their fast track to super stardom. They were denied. There were tears in our house - tears of joy.
It really is the best tv programme, well it is whilst it's still at the audition stage. The ladyfriend and I rush home from the high street, pop the chops under a low light and switch on to see Cowell et al sort the Wheat from the Chav.

I have been under the weather. I've had razor blades in my throat the size of those dwarf actors you get in provincial Christmas pantomimes. I'm better now though and back to my usual nasty self. I've got my eye on that Natasha Kaplinksy. I was raging with anger at her this morning over my porridge (which incidentally was made with soya milk - I didn't like it, I had to add more sugar which surely counteracts any health benefits which my switch from dairy would have made)
Anyway, she sat there boss eyed, pouting, dressed like she was off to a brothel afterwards whilst Bill Turnbill (a woman in drag?) tried to keep things together. Natasha stumbled with the long AND short words. I tell you, the woman is the Victoria Beckham of morning television. It was reported this week in the red tops that 'Posh' has never read a book before - join the club with Natasha - she's never read an autocue!

Lola's a mess. Grumpy too. I've a throat full of razor blades and I've been acting right grouchy all day. Were it not for our Captain's glorious batting on the Cricket field I think I would be in deep mood indigo indeed. I need to get better soon so I have been drinking a huge bio yog smoothie (alarming calorie count) in an attempt to holisticly treat the bacteria.

I want to be in tip top condition, with a shiny coat and wet nose on Saturday as it's Kelly's wedding. I don't want to be sat like a wallflower, frowning at the revellers whilst chewing on scotch eggs.

I'm feeling a bit under the weather. As I write this I have a bit of a thumper. I blame the air conditioning ofcourse. I've been breathing in the germs of thirty odd people (quantity, not age) and it's no wonder I am diseased.

I shall have to cook invalid food for tonight's supper. The ladyfriend won't be happy but it's as much as I can do to crack an egg. No doubt she will raise her fists, take off to the pub and come home stinking of ale and pork scratchings.........what it is to be a woman.

Oh dear, I don't know about hit the bottle but I reckon the bottle hit me this weekend. I am now on a complete detox although I have just eaten a tuna sandwhich of dubious quality and terrifying calorie count.

Brighton Pride was sensational this year - and I have the pictures to prove it : www.lifeforlola.co.uk/gallery/gaypride2005 I had the best time ever but have to admit to getting really, rather squiffy. I even danced in a tent which smelt of mud, damp grass and delicate womens perspiration (the women weren't delicate, the sweat was)

I was very pleased with my t-shirt. A few people got it. The ornotholgists among you might notice the species of bird on my top.....

I can see my house from here! I've been in China this morning, Rome yesterday and this afternoon, if no one is looking, I might pop off to Paris for a mince around the Champs Elysee. Yes, that's right folks, I'm talking about the fantastic Google Map service. I'm addicted. You can zoom right in from space onto earth. It's phenomenal. Take a look here: http://maps.google.com I think sensitive military targets may be obscured but it's hours of fun. Meet me in St. Louis for afternoon tea!

I'm off out with the girls after work tonight. It's not the sort of thing I regularly do. Since joining a new working environment I've noticed it's something that they do rather a lot. I feel like a proper "office girl". The sort that has a skin care routine, the sort who tries the latest fad diet, reads Heat magazine, watches Enders and drinks diet coke. Instead of the bitter and twisted old dyke which I am normally, tonight Matthew I will be a bubbly girl from work who laughs like a drain, gets smashed on Bacardi and photocopies her arse on a photocopier!

The countdown to Brighton Pride has begun, I'm hoping for good weather. Each year the ladyfriend and I promise ourselves we will watch the parade and not trudge to Preston park but every year we get Pride Amnesia. Oh what the hey, like a battered wife I'll forgive and put myself through it all again. By this time on Saturday I will have a thumping headache, a hatred of screaming queens, a shattered ear drum because of the whistles and food poisoning from a dodgy falafel.

I will bump into all the people I have ever wanted to avoid and the train ride to Eastbourne, which enroute was so enchanting, will be never ending and over airconditioned. The ladyfriend and I will scowl at each other all the way home.

Whilst at my Wonderful Mum's I have been able to use all the luxuries available to me which have included nice toiletries, king prawns, a raft of magazines and satellite television. I convinced myself that I really didn't want satellite tv after realising that there is even more rubbish on it than the four channels that I managed to pick up on a terrestial set. Infact, I spent twenty minutes the other day flicking up and down trying to find something engaging. Atleast it's good exercise for the fingers.

I was all ready to throw in the towel when I discovered Oswald the Octopus! He's an absolute delight. He's on Channel 5 in the morning and he's an absolute tonic. Now I am in a flux. Do I buy SKY so I can receive Channel 5 or cut the cord and end my new found happiness?.......still, there maybe a DVD......

Well, in this morning's news they were on about how patients are grumbling because they can't get a doctor's appointment when they want one. I rattled my tea cup in the saucer and picked up the phone. I was straight through to the dolly on the switchboard and after some tipping and tapping I'm in for Thursday. I would have preferred a Friday (which would have fitted more in with my plans) but other than that I'm in faster than a vet's well oiled arm. It's clearly healthier and more beneficial not to live in an inner city.

I must remember to take a few of my old magazines for the waiting room. I've flicked through the same copy of Cosmo for two years - you can just imagine the MRSA lurking amongst its seedy pages. I'm sure a batch of my Peoples Friend will go down a storm with the suffering.

I'm actually going there myself for an exploration of an intimate nature which I won't go in to here, suffice to say I shall be thinking of a happy place during my time at the country practice.

5.30am and there is a manic scratching at the bedroom door. I am cruelly taken from my chance of ice skating glory at the Winter Olympics and catapulted back to reality and a soft bed in the home counties. I stumble into the kitchen and feed Rosie the cat and notice the other one is not to be seen. Taking the time to be too early I go back to bed and am followed by Rosie. She doesn't leave me alone and prods and squeals at me. I fall back to sleep.

Two hours later I wake up. Rosie is still looking at me with urgency. I waltz out to the kitchen and then, with horror, I see a cat trapped in the conservatory. Poor Susie, a night of terror and crossed legs. She bolted for the cat flap on her release from incarceration and I felt like a failure.

I'm getting a bit too used to my new digs, the sky tv, the fan oven and the duck and down duvet, I will need counseling when I have to go back to the slums.

It's all a bit fraught in London at the moment, the ladyfriend is on about popping up to IKEA but I'm put off by the terrorists. Just imagine the shame of dying with a Scandinavian nic nac called something like TWAT in your hands? No, I intend to stay well away from the throng. Call me a coward if you will, I don't mind. Infact, I'm already being measured up for my burca.

My Wonderful Mother and Super Step Dad have gone off on a cruise around the Med on a huge floating palace. The ship is so huge I imagine at night time it must look like the New York Skyline with all the cabin lights on. I don't think I could be talked into such a venture - I have a morbid fear of sleeping on board ship. I just know I would wake to the sound of water gushing in under the door and all my toiletries hitting the walls. No, I don't think I'd like it in the least. And ofcourse all those Northerners.

The Ladyfriend and I have been looking after their house since Saturday and I have only just finished rummaging through all of the drawers. It's nice being in new digs. We have cats to feed, seed to scatter for the birds and, best of all, badgers to cater for! I feel like Bill Oddie with my box brownie trained on their humbug like heads. I'm going to stay up late on Saturday night and see if I get to see the foxes and the deer. It's a blue moon so it will be extra magical!

Pictures atlast of my holiday - Click here

I feel like the size of a house today. Not any old house but one with a garage full of half empty paint tins, handy bits of wood and a broken Dyson hoover in. I have consumed some rare old rubbish this weekend. I am ripe for the health farm. I need to be plucked like a bulging Victoria plum and taken to the hot box, left to steam for three hours, towel wrapped around my neck, whilst my trunk shrinks trapped inside.

The best news I have heard today? - Talk like a pirate day

Bit concerned about the flower arrangements for this year. It's my own fault of course. It stems (ged it) from infrequent and haphazzard trips to the garden centre. My pots on the patio are now an explosion of clashing colours which I think is gaudy but the ladyfriend thinks is pretty. I'm letting it go for this year but it wont win Chelsea Gold. I wince everytime I trapse out with the Mai Tais.

Mercy me I have been a busy bee. It's all work and no play and, yes, I am a dull boy. I don't know why I have not been able to spare a few minutes to make my daily entry - I am normally the first to down tools, read a fwd:email about about a miraculous moment which happened to a woman in California with a stump for a leg which I must then forward to all my friends in my sad little inbox. Any how I have not had much time. I still have not sorted out my glorious holiday pictures. I am getting behind. Life is running at a pace too fast for me to comfortably move in. It's a little out of sync. Like watching an advert for sweets which have been made for a European market. I feel as though I have been dubbed by a woman with a penchant for bratwurst. I've checked my arm pits and will get the Gillette out post haste.

I have had a little 'mood indigo' and have been full of 'humph'. I was so devoid of fun and lack lustre that I put my fingers up to the bike and jumped on the bus this morning. One pound and ten to go three stops, shocking. I won't make poverty history if I carry on at this rate. My bank account is looking unsightly at the moment and it will be the debtors prison for me if I allow luxury to get in the way of good housekeeping. I've never been able to look after the pennies. The ladyfriend is the same, only, she drinks like a fish and will no doubt end up in the workhouse with a purple nose and pissy knickers. I will end my days travelling like a Romany painting landscapes on the back of match boxes for tourists, doing odd jobs for kindly bar owners and tickling trout in rural streams.

Another smashing holiday and I'm back fully refreshed and shiny new. Atleast I was until I turned up at work. I am toying with my holiday bracelet (I always buy something to wear around my wrist to remind me that my freedom was not my imagination. It lasts all year and as the tan fades the bracelet remains and gives me some hope and something to aim for)

Still, Summer is not over yet and there are plenty of functions I have still to attend and participate in. I am sewing my Brighton Pride sequins as I speak and you can't move for glitter in the sitting room.

I've eased myself gently into my 'oliday like an Angel Delight which could perhaps do with a few more rotations of the whisk and I'm flopped out in the blissful warmth of a late June day. I'm in Blue using their internet facility and sipping gingerly on a large Cappuccino. The music sounds a bit David Grayish which normally grates but hasn't bitten into my reverie.

I have just checked my hotmail for the first time in ages and to my horror my account had been deactivated due to a prolonged period of unuse - my goodness if people were to extend this rule to other elements of my life I'd been in a right old pickle. Still, this holiday is all about picking up things I have left to dust - books, kites, fishing nets, paintbrushes, mooching in shops for hours. I have already scooped a nice pair of trousers from a closing down sale. It was quite a scrum. Women with push chairs all after the same crop top. It wasn't pretty. I tried on the trousers in a changing room which had a faint whiff of sick about it but I wasn't put off, I'll look a bobby dazzler on the beach in 'em.

Matthew Szurgott - you'll be pleased to know my book is full of knights, blood and gore and I watched two episodes of Spaced with the Homageometer on before breakfast this morning.

Oooh I'm dashing away with a smoothing iron trying to get everything at work ready for my holiday. In ten minutes I will have my freedom. Two weeks off to explore coves, read books, experiment with fusion food! Oh tres jolie! My next post will be from an internet cafe!

Happy Solstice every one. I didn't make it down to Wiltshire AGAIN! It's a bit like Christmas, every year it comes around and you're not prepared (staying up all night means a day off work and if you don't book it you don't go etc, etc) and just like Christmas when it comes around you say 'next year I'm going to be better prepared (buy presents in June and keep them tucked in the sock drawer, etc, etc) My new age batteries are well in need of a charging. I need to get down with the crusties and shake my thang in Avebury.

By the way, above is a picture of me waiting at Eastbourne train station for the train to Hastings Jack in the Green. It is me in my elf ears which you can't really see, never mind. I haven't got my garland in my hair so you will have to use your imagination. Next year however, I intend to dress as Mr Tumnus.......as I was saying about Christmas.....

I'm lightly toasted like a prematurely grabbed out crumpet which you can't wait for because you're too hungry. I tried to stay out of the sun as best I could, rubbed in the sun lotion and sat beneath a brolly on the beach but the UV's caught me here and there. I've got those ridiculous t-shirt marks that make you jump when you have a bath.

The New Forest was fun. I love camping shops. Boxes of tent pegs, rails of leisure wear, collapsible kitchen equipment and miles of string which you cut to order. Marvellous. A romantic world of the open road, starry skies and bird song. A joy. The ladyfriend and I have pencilled in August for a return journey with the two man.

Yesterday it was too hot to mow the lawn. We just managed a third of it, as a result the back garden looks like a pikey kid's hair cut. I must press on with it tonight. I take my annual leave on Friday so everything has to be ship shape and ready for my summer seaside break.

Aaaah, this is baby Amy my nicest niece. She's fab. I went to see her last night with my wonderful mother and the ladyfriend. We clucked like hens, passing her amongst ourselves as soon as she started to cry.

Last night I sliced a finger on my left hand furiously trying to open a packet of noodles with a sharp kitchen knife. As a consequence my ablutions this morning were hampered and I dressed myself more by accident than design.

Rugger Bugger Matthew Szurgot has his own website now so I must point you to it - it's in its infancy but he is keen for his audience to grow from the outset, so here you go www.yououttonight.co.uk

I'm off to the New Forest this weekend, it's going to be a scorcher, I reckon I might peel off and take a plunge in the solent.

Round. Like a circle in a spiral. Like a wheel within a wheel. Never ending or beginning. On an ever-spinning reel. Like a snowball down a mountain ...

I've been watching the wheel of my bike as I slug along to work in the morning. There's a big dollop of muck on it, quite possibly dog related, that comes round quicker as I pedal faster.

It makes me feel young again riding a bike. Not because I feel fitter and thinner (I don't think I've dropped a dress size yet) but all the things I used to do (like getting dog muck on my wheels) is happening again. I fly down the hills, lean over to fly round corners, whack scratchy overgrown hedges, ride on the pavement and best of all - pull up the handle bars to leap up kerbs. My heart is always in my mouth, will I make it? Or will I go arse over mammary infront of the rush hour traffic.

There is such a thin line between being tidy and slovenly, a good housewife and a slattern. Take Monday night, I was making Cod in Parsley sauce - I was feeling a little under the weather and the favourite family dish is ideal invalid food. My fish was cooking nicely so I prepared myself to Bechamel. My butter was in the pan so I pulled out a bag of flour from the cupboard and that's when it happened. One minute I'm Martha Stewart the next I'm Wilfred Brambell. My generous spoon of self raising was crawling with weevils! I had let things go and my pantry had become infested. I checked another bag and the blighters were there! The shame of it. It just goes to prove, when you think you are on top things you really aren't, there are always the small things building up. Check your flour bags ladies.

What a weekend! I've tacked, jibed, capsized and fingered an admirable (or should it be Admiral) Bowline. This sailing lark is fantastic fun but I still can't get the turning bit to work properly. I flounder about in the boat, the sail flapping madly, whilst the other students pass me with ease. I'm no Ms MacArthur, that's for sure. I am enjoying sailing club life however, especially the tea and sponge cake afterwards.

Ah ha - Miss Diane's kiddy wink is doing nicely - Click here

Koo-koo-ka-choo, Mrs. Robinson,
Jesus loves you more than you will know - Oh it's very sad. I don't like it when the really good ones die. What a shame, and what a tragic way to go. Oh, too sad to write today.....I'm off to Play.com and see if they've got a nice box set going.

I'm all arse about face today. Here I am, the sun truly over the yard arm and I am only now settling down to write my memoirs. I've been working like a stable hand and that's the truth. It won't stop yet either. I've got a bit of Monty Don to do when I get home. I've a cart load of plants to pot up, a delightful meal to prepare and then, if I'm not too wan from my labours, Spring Watch to watch. Tonight we get to see Hares boxing. I'm getting back to nature at the moment. It is very fashionable to provide for wildlife and roll naked in wet grass. I'm loving myself in my Cotton Traders Wrinkle-Free Chinos. I have already instructed the ladyfriend to build me a hide, I'll have her dashing off to B&Q before you can say "Lesser Spotted Dendrocopos minor".

To the country this weekend to stay with MR & Mrs Brown. We had a lovely time, drank like a fish. Browsed around some nice antiques and kicked a few Queen Anne legs whilst no one was looking. We went to the Newbury Farmers Market yesterday, my goodness there was some good stuff. The ladyfriend and I filled our baskets with ham, free range eggs, tomatoes, plants and a huge bundle of asparagus. I felt very Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall as I man handled the goats cheese.

The ladyfriend and I ate all the produce last night and it was quite heavenly. However, I fear the old water is rather pungent today. I am flushing through but I was a bit greedy, piling on the spears last night....thank goodness the season is short.

Beautiful June day, sun high in the sky, swallows on the wing, few clouds and a gentle breeze and I am sitting here at work in arctic conditions. Our modern offices come complete with the modern day asbestos - air conditioning.
The best form of air is that that floats in through a window. The natural stuff. I can't wait for the outbreak of disease. Did you know the most sterile environment is in the middle of a field? That little gem of information comes from experiences in the first world war. Germs multiply because they can't get out - yuk, yuk, yuk. I should start a sweep stake to see who the first victim will be.

On a dismal first day of June the Double D's are leaving on a jet plane - I don't actually know if they'll be back again. Dawn and Dave are heading off to a life in Spain. As the plane taxis along a Malaga runway England, with its escalating crime and plummeting family values, will drift away like a packet of fags on a receding tide. Lucky them. A life of sun, sea and sangria awaits them. And sunburn no doubt. Keep 'em covered Dawn.

I've gone right off that Natasha Kaplinsky, actually I always viewed her with caution. She's boss eyed, a constant auto cue reader and, if today's performance is anything to go by, a drunk. She's a rotten apple in the BBC barrel and I for one do not want to watch her slurring at my and other licence fee payer's expense. That nice Jan Leeming was a good little performer, yes she read the autocue but you couldn't tell. Jan looked up from time to time. Perhaps Natasha thinks she's 'bigger than all this' now she turns up like a bad penny on most of the BBC's output (all be it poor)and I don't like it. Ooooh those Russians. I've got one word to say to Kaplinsky - Selina Scott.

Oh my lord I can't breathe with excitement! Entertaining Mr Sloane is on sale on DVD! I have waited, oh how I have waited for this moment. It even comes with a collector's booklet. I've placed my order and proceeded to the checkout. Does life get any better?

I'm like Tyres from Spaced well, atleast I should be. You should have seen me flying along the highway this morning on two wheels. If you had been there you would have seen my puzzled expression. For some reason I wasn't travelling quite as fast as expected. Infact I was experiencing rather high levels of resistence. My break blocks were rubbing on my wheels! They had jammed themselves and instead of freewheeling it was an uphill struggle. I'm not having too much luck at this going green lark - infact you could say I'm feeling enviro MENTAL!

It was my best intention to cycle to work this morning as the office has now moved to more convenient premises. It's rather lovely actually. My view is spectacular, I have a nice tree covered in ivy to the south and to the east a pleasant stream complete with ducklings. I am, as they say, in clover.

Anyhow, I looked out over my porridge and the rain was steadily drifting down, I didn't much fancy a bike ride which would leave me with a black slash of water and grease up my backside so I made ready to walk. I estimated 30 minutes should do it. I packed my bag for a day of paid labour.

The rain continued so up went the brolly. I wasn't even half way there when time trickled away, my pace was too slow, my shoulder ached because I had too much in my bag. There was a point where I contemplated jettisoning the four granny smith's but I kept on. I felt like one of those athletes running dragging a tyre behind them. I wasted time swapping the bag and brolly arm and arrived eventually about five minutes late in a right old mess. It took me the best part of an hour to cool down. Still, if I carry on like this I may drop a dress size. I'm hoping the blustery showers will abate so I can wheel out the boneshaker tomorrow.

They said 'bring something to wear on your feet that you don't mind getting wet, a pair of old trainers are ideal'. Well, the ladyfriend and I bought a pair of those rubber sea shoes each so we were laughing. I've seen that boat launching lark, running into the surf and jumping on with elegance and sailing off into the horizon.

We turned up at the sailing club for our first lesson on Saturday. The sea was a bit choppy and so we got down to the theory of tacking and assembling the boats. We watched a video about sailing life and had a nice lunch in the clubhouse. This is the life, I thought, yes, I could get used to this!

After lunch we were told that conditions were ok and that we would go out in the training boat. There was a great deal of excitement and we were told to help ourselves to a wetsuit from the shed. The ladyfriend and I sifted through a selection of suits, some of which had holes in (no doubt from shark bites) and grabbed a life jacket. Now, I was quite surprised. I thought if I put a wet suit on I'd look faintly ridiculous, my larger bits would be enhanced and I'd end up like a string of sausages but it's not the case. Infact, wetsuits are slimming! They hold you in, shaving pounds off all over. Happy with my hour glass figure I made my way out to the shoreline.

Surf was up. Within seconds of pushing the boat from the trailer into the sea the ladyfriend was over, she plunged into the sea and I grabbed her before the boat ran over her head. Then our fellow pupil jumped into the boat then clung to the boat on all fours. I jumped in as wave after wave pounded our vessel. The ladyfriend managed to scramble in which just left Harry our instructor. Harry was the straw that broke the camel's back. With a sudden rush the boat capsized. I was trapped under the sail and the ladyfriend sank toward the sea bed. I sprang to the surface in panic, got back into the boat unable to breathe through shock. The ladyfriend was left on the shore and I waved as we sailed out, salt water streaming from my nose - what have we done?

I've got a Butler's sink. Lucky old me. My place of work is being gutted as we are moving to a new building and the old one, built in the 1950's is being raised to the ground. There are a few of these lovely sinks dotted around but I've plumped for the one in the medical room which is smaller and just the thing for my country cottage kitchen - when I get one. It's a nice sink and if it could talk I bet it could tell a story or two I'm sure. I bet it's had no amount of blood - and worse - splattered around it's white sides.

It was a bugger to shift, I must thank Rugger Bugger Matthew Szurgot for helping lift it. It made my hair curl when I tried to budge it. He lifted it up like Atlas and didn't break a bead of sweat. He's a good lad. My fantasy lad infact. He's going to lend me some of his dungeonsy dragonsy computer games. He's a very nice young man, I'd take him home to meet mother but he'd be too busy playing with his joystick.

Ooh, I seem to have been chasing my tail since January. I feel like one of those mad beasts that Ray Harryhausen created.Moving all a bit real yet not, y'know what I mean? Over sized, clumsy and gruesome. I need a holiday and indeed I have booked one. I'm not going abroad, I won't need a flight bag where I am going. No, I am off to spend two whole weeks in Eastbourne. I intend to knock out a few watercolours in an old country church yard, collect pebbles on the beach and press a few flowers, fly my kite in a cheek tingling wind and try out a few recipes that have since looked daunting. It's not for a month or two but I am already dusting off my easel.

Of course she is the most beautiful baby in the world, she was always going to be! Lola is very pleased with the little dumpling, very pleased indeed. I went to see her last night in the sterile environment (yeah right) of a NHS hospital and after navigating my way through a series of swing doors and narrow passage ways I scooped up the little bundle in my arms and she didn't scream! Quite a result. Not the usual Lola effect. I intend to become a major influence on her upbringing. Teach her all the valuable lessons in life. Impart my knowledge of fencing, macrame, container gardening, field sports and white water rafting. There will be no better finishing school for the little lady.

I will give her presents which will be useful yet unfamiliar - stuff from the Inovations catalogue which she will be lost for words on unwrapping them. I will dress her in Pirate Costume when in my charge and she can ride pillion through the country lanes of Sussex on field expedition trips - butterfly net flapping in the breeze. Oh yes, I'm looking forward to the next ten years.

How exciting. I have a new name, a new role in life, a new position in the family hierachy - I am Aunty Lola! The little baby - who shall remain nameless....only because I don't think they have decided - was born last night at 11.20pm weighing in at a considerably hefty Imperial sized 91bs 12oz. I'm ever so pleased, now I have an excuse to splash out in Woolworths at Christmas. I'm off to see the little dumpling tonight. I shall take the box brownie with me.

I hope they let me in, I have an air of garlic about me. I've been marinated in the stuff this weekend. Friday night Dawn and Dave - the Double D's - came down to visit us in our modest seaside flat. We went out for a lovely Italian nosh up and painted the Georgian/Victorian seaside town, which boasts and attractive pier, red. We had such a fab time that Saturday was used for complete relaxation and the polishing off of our Kath and Kim dvds.

More garlic with a joint of lamb in the evening and then more yesterday, when we lunched in an Italian restaurant full of comfortably off old dears. There is something of the Med about my odour. Tonight we are out celebrating my Super Step Dad's birthday - I think I shall plump for something bland, innocuous and no challenge to the palette.

I've just had a brush with the dark arts. Well, I thought I had. I've just been to make the tea and my pal Jane Lofthouse-Smith (double barreled in more ways than one) told me that she would be at the rear, in the warehouse. I said I'd bring her out her tea when ready.

I duly minced out with the tray of hot beverages but there was no sign of Lofty. "Lofty" I said "Lofty, where are you?" Then, there was a commotion and a flurry of feathers and out flew a wood pigeon.

I nearly dropped the tray in 'orror. Lofty had been changed into a bird! I know it happens with cats but Wood Pigeons I was not familiar with. I scuttled off back to my workstation with my eyes tightly closed.

I met Lofty on the way back, smiling serenely, she said she'd been down to reception but I knew better.......

I've begun my summer container gardening in earnest. So much so infact I have an inch of compost which is stubbornly stuck under my finger nails. I look like one of those damaged girls in care who Colin doesn't clean properly in the morning.

Each year I buy more and more pots and each year I never have enough. Something sinister is a foot - especially if it is a foot belonging to jack frost.....This leads me on to buying plants prematurely. I have paid out for shed loads of geraniums and petunias and the last two mornings we have had to scrape the car window! What's that all about? I've had to cover my delicates from the icy blast.

This year I treated myself and bought lots of herbs, I've planted some odd ones - Thyme Archers Gold, Meadowsweet, Budleia Mint, Orange Thyme, Curry Plant - ooh, I'll have to watch it, if the crops fail this year I'll be first down the pond for a ducking.

Someone has asked me to do something that I'm none too happy about. It's website building based before anyone worries, nothing filthy just mildly mucky, it's selling racy undies and I've had one of those moral dilemmas. As there is money involved my eyes sparkled for a few seconds but I've been left with an unsavoury taste round my chops. Writing this down now has been cathartic and I've decided to scotch the fellow now and extracate myself from it. Lola doesn't do blue.

I see the conservatives have decided that they need more women and people of colour in their party. I bet a few people in the home counties spat their cornflakes over the Telegraph this morning. Bless 'em, a race dying on it's tweed clad arse. "My boys, we are at the end of an age. We live in a land of 'weather forcasts' and breakfasts that 'set in'. Shat on by Tories, shovelled up by Labour. Now, which of you is going to be a splendid fellow and go down to the Rolls for the rest of the wine?"

Blimey, I've been rushed off my feet. Everything has been a bit busy my end. I've been covering the election at work in a very 'local' way which has meant sleep deprevation and email wipe out (if you have sent me an email in the last week you can bet your life it has been gobbled up by a nasty bug)

My bank holiday weekend was an absolute corker. Mr C and Mr D were perfect house guests they left no mess and were a pleasure to have. I even ended up lager fuelled dancing in the back room of a gay pub such was the decadence of the weekend. Jack in the Green went without a hitch, my elf ears stuck fast and I was cock-a-hoop with my garb. Next year I might go for a more floaty number. We shall see.....Take a look at the pictures here to be going along with.

A picture of myself is in circulation, I shall have to get hold of it so you can see my falsies......ears that is.

PS: Auntydom is looming - just a few more days surely!

Lola is away

Just been making some tea in the staff canteen/restroom/call it what you will. It being Friday there aren't so many staff around - local paper deadlines have been met, adverts sold etc - and I was taken by the peace and quiet as I set up the tea tray and went about making refreshments the Windsor Way.

I could hear a blackbird's trill, the gentle hum of the refridgerator and the gurgle of the kettle (which was filled perilously close to maximum)and I felt as though I was in a secret garden of solitude. I felt at one with myself and the world.

It's a great start to the weekend which I reckon will be played at break neck speed. The ladyfriend and I have house guests at the coast. Mr C and Mr D are joining us at our seaside retreat. My C is rather tall and I fear for the chandelier, however, I will make good use of his height, I shall employ him to chop some lovely ivy for my Jack in the green head dress on Monday. I'm looking forward to wearing my elf ears.

I was listening to Radio 2 this morning on the way to work and my mind wandered, as it is want, to all the other people who were listening to the same record up and down the country. I was imagining the ladies applying lipstick saying "I have very beautiful lips and the truckers chewing on bacon sandwhiches at roadside cafes. I also thought of the bed and breakfast establishments, Glen Campbell floating out of the kitchen and into the dining room where awkward couples wipe grains of sugar off of their arms.

I stopped when I thought of the holidaying couples as the day looked a bit dull. I wondered what they were going to do with themselves as it looked like rain. I imagined them scanning those little racks of tourist attraction leaflets and ending up at some dreadful little museum or the 'home of fudge'. Poor buggers. All this to a backdrop of 'A Rhinestone Cowboy'

The Ladyfriend and I have been watching Mapp & Lucia. We have been given the whole set on DVD and have been indulging in an episode a night. Fantastic stuff. Filmed in Rye ofcourse which is one of our favourite little weekend destinations when in Sussex. It's about an hour's drive from Eastbourne but well worth putting yourself out. I have photos of the little place here if you want to have a little nose

It's nice watching old programmes. This DVD revolution has got me watching all kinds of stuff long since forgotten. One thing I have noticed though is programmes in the eighties were filmed with very peculiar lighting. Mapp & Lucia is very dull but bright at the same time. It might be because it's a pirate copy but I don't think so. All the best stuff from that period has that washed out look. TV today is so vivid, we must appreciate it more. Mind you, as the sun sets the sky becomes alive with fire - perhaps,like the sun, as the quality of programmes goes down and finally sets we will be in darkness.

My mate Vicky from the Beeb (A bit like Jenny from the Block but think the Midlands) and I have been ripping Ellen to shreds like two rabid dogs with an unfortunate Hare between our teeth. I've found comfort in other women. Both Michelle and Victoria have come to my rescue with some wise words.

Last night old age sat by my side. I told her to leave and come back later when I came to my senses. I have just joined the RSPB which is mature enough as it is but, in the joining pack, I was sent a car sticker. I held it up to the ladyfriend and said "this is quite nice, shall we put it in the back window?" There was a second when the ladyfriend looked with polite horror at me and then I realised how close I had come. Like a canoe, teetering on the edge of a huge waterfall, the Ladyfriend was my Johnny Weissmuller sweeping down on a length of twine to pluck me from old age. Thank god. I popped the sticker in the bin just incase.

Oh dear, Lola's had her dreams smashed. The Ellen McArthur interview was a bit of a damp squib. I don't know that I can even bring myself to talk about it such was the dissapointment. She aint no jolly jack tar that's for shore.

The Ladyfriend has banned me from involvement in anything of the like again. After the Jack in the Green festival this weekend I shall lie low for a bit and hand the Red Coat over to the ladyfriend. My entertainment licence has well and truly expired.

I've got one of those phobia things. I don't like touching door handles in municipal buildings. Before entering or exiting a lavvy in particular I have to drag down my jumper sleeve and tuck it around my hand as a barrier. The ladyfriend now knows to expect this behaviour and slows down so as not to bump into me.

I wouldn't mention it really but I've had a bit of a thought. I've begun to feel a bit cautious about shopping baskets. As they are continuously used do they ever get washed? And if so when, how many times a week, month, year? During busy periods of the day in a supermarket the same basket must be used around ten times an hour. Ten different grubby right hands (the left hand is the devil's shovel) and all the germs associated with these hands are left on the handles.

Again, I wouldn't really mention it but I've been thinking, as MRSA has increased and got out of control could you draw a parallel with the profits of Tesco also increasing and getting out of control? Are Tesco cutting corners with cleanliness and are they the cause of the superbug? I quote the BBC - "One in three pounds you now spend in supermarkets goes into a Tesco till." I say Tesco's make you ill!

I've just popped down to the new Marks and Spencer 'simply food' shop. It's on one of those retail parks that erupt like boils along main roads. It was my first visit to the shop and I felt a mixture of delight and reservation at the same time.

There was a smashing amount of food on display and it was nice to see new packages. I skipped about with my basket and was putting this, that and the other in to it. However, when I reached the tomatoes I was a little bit taken aback by the price. Two quid for approximately eight cherry tomatoes - are they taking the piss? (all be it distilled through volcanic rock). I looked around me and spotted ladies clad in two piece suits, high hair and foundation slapped on their faces and felt a bit horrified at what we have become in the Sarf. I felt as though I was at the court of Louis XIV - such ugly extravagance.

I realised that if I wanted the tomatoes I could have them and not feel the pinch or the fear of the landlord at the door. Baby wouldn't go with out and all that, but I couldn't bring myself to buy them on principle. I felt the breath of excess blowing at my neck and i didn't like it.

Goodness me how the day has flown by. It seems to be hurtling at great speed. I will be tucked up with my cocoa before you can say 'rapid decline' I just know it.

During luncheon I flicked through the Sun newspaper (not my newspaper of choice but as my handsome big brother says 'it does do the best sports coverage') anyway, I noticed that George and Lynn the two nymphomaniac cartoon characters are still at it hammer and tong. They still look fresh as a daisy. It made me think, what if cartoons aged like real life. Fred Bassett would have long been fertilizing the rose bush, Charlie Brown would by now be an accountant and George and Lynn - well! I should imagine George's prostate would have given out and Lynn's main passion would be a nice word search.

I'm sitting here at work a bit windblown, my apple red cheeks have been battered by an Eastbourne sea breeze and I'm in a bit of a need for pulped avocado. I shall lay down tonight with a slice of cucumber on each eye and a gin and tonic.

Last night the Ladyfriend and I went to see Eddi Reader. I booked the tickets quite early on but was still shocked in to shame to discover that I had front row, centre seats. We were only a few foot away from her! I've never been so close to a stage...well, that's not strictly true, I once saw Jean Boht in a pantomime once. She was a pissed fairy godmother and she fixed me with a steely gaze all the way through the performance. I think she was using me as a guide so she could walk straight but it put me off the production.

Anyway, Eddi Reader was predictably fantastic and it was nice to see her so close. Infact, she is the start of my celebrity week which culminates with Ellen McArthur on Friday. I'm wearing nautique today in preperation.

Rugger bugger Matthew Szurgot has been helping me think up questions for Ellen. Sadly his questions are of a rather unsavoury nature and make me blush to think them let alone ask them. The ladyfriend and I have a ten minute audience with the little lady. She's quite a chatty Kathy from what I've seen on the telly so I think we shall be able to fill it.

This weekend we are out on the tiles of Brighton with Michelle and Sarah. They are going to show us the sights and, believe you me, there are plenty of sights to be seen in the seedy seaside city.

I also want to look at sourcing a few materials for my jack in the green costume. Yesterday I stumbled on a most perculiar lady via google: click here and see what I mean

Sweet Jesus my life just got even better. At the moment my life is like a car radio when you're off on a nice trip and the radio plays a good record which fills you with joy. Then, the next record is good and then the next and so on and so forth until you are a vessel of delirium.

I shall press on - next Friday I am going to interview Ellen McArthur. Can you believe it?! By lucky hapt the planets have aligned and placed me on the x that marks the spot. The ladyfriend is going to take the pictures. I dare say any I take will be blurred as I would shake with excitement.

I am trying to think up some interesting questions to ask her. I intend to brush up with nautical terms and sea shanties to put her at ease. I will walk up to her bo-legged stinking or rum, that ought to do the trick.

My goodness me I've got a lot on my plate. The whole of April is consumed with social events. This weekend I am off on my yearly pilgramage to see Eddi Reader at the Shepherds Bush Empire. Rush out readers now and buy yourself a ticket, I promise that if you are dissapointed I shall refund you!

Best event comes at the end of the month however, the Jack in the Green festival in Hastings. The ladyfriend and I went last year and it poured with rain but I have high hopes for this year. The rooks are nesting high in the trees which can only mean a long hot summer and a nice bank holiday weekend. I will gather flora and fauna for my headress, I intend to 'get with the programme' as they say.

My snaps of the Royal wedding are up and atom click here to have a buther's hook. They don't really do the day justice, you can't get a feel for the sheer numbers of well wishers cheering on the King but never mind. You may derive some pleasure from them.

It was all I could do to drag myself from the mattress this morning. I think the weekend has finally caught up with me. I was awake for far too long on Saturday. Up at 7.30 to get to Windsor and then it was up at Miss Diane's until the wee small hours of Sunday morning. My head didn't hit the pillow until 4am. I packed too much pleasure into one day but it was worth it - that Miss Diane doesn't half know how to dress a salad.

Well, what a smashing time the ladyfriend and I had at Windsor on Saturday. It was quite a carnival atmosphere as I was battered against the railings. The Royal town was fit to bursting and I was proud to be there with my little flag. My pictures weren't too bad - I should have them up on Lola tomorrow - unfortunately the only Royal we managed to capture on camera was Princess Anne. Charles and Camilla whizzed by too quickly and we have a blur where they should have been. The ladyfriend was official photographer so I'm saying nothing.

It was a magnificent day out for all the family though, security was tight, SWAT teams were on the rooftops, coppers were pulling odd looking gentlemen out of the crowds and men with little radios eyed us with caution. It was quite thrilling.

We saw a few familiar faces from the tv screen. Trinnie and Susannah, Piers Morgan and Janet Street Porter. We also saw the odious Peter Tatchell. He was waving a placard about wanting gay marriage. He stood next to us like the grim reaper. "We've got the partnership register haven't we?" I said to him. He looked at me like he was looking at Judas himself and said "It's not equality!" I shrugged and said "It's enough for me"

It was a brilliant turnout for the golden couple and I was pleased. Ofcourse, as expected, the papers the next day were full of praise and nice words. Too little too late is what I say! More tomorrow, I'm off now for my lunch - a gammon salad in a plastic container - wish me well.

Just had a butchers at the tv and seen the Pope's funeral. That's a bit of a big old 'do'. I'm hoping there won't be the same kind of crowds tomorrow in Windsor. I shall have a bit of a panic attack if I'm in close quarters to such a howling mass. I hope there isn't a sudden surge forward as Camilla appears and I'm carried toward the bariers - with my legs losing contact with the ground. My little Union Jack might be shoved up my nostril in the melee.

The new camera has been delivered today so hopefully I shall be able to get close to Charles with the optical zoom. I don't hold out too much hope of a good observation point but I shall enjoy the occasion. The ladyfriend and I are going to paint 'Camilla' 'Queen of our hearts' on our breasts.

Been asked by Lofty at work what I shall be wearing to the wedding. I must say if the weather forecast is anything to go by it won't be flimsy. No, I suppose I shall settle on tweed, I'll also roll up the barbour and tuck it under my arm just in case.

The Ladyfriend expressed her reservations about going to Windsor, I shot her a look that would wither an egg sandwhich. I would go alone but I worry about looking like one of those nut case loners who camp out at such events and always end up on ITV. I couldn't risk it. She's coming along, I've promised that I will treat her to a Charles and Camilla commerative ash tray for her trouble.

Getting back to the election, I see that horrendous Blur bloke has promised more money to poor families. It gets my goat. What do I get? All the poor do is squander their extra income on sportswear, ciggies and mobile phones. The Ladyfriend said "the poor have got their priorities all wrong" and she's right.

You'd get my vote if you start channelling a bit of cash my way Mr Blur. Give me a rebate because of the unlikely hood of me ever taking maternity leave. Let me pick up a bit of extra wonger for paying the same amount of tax even though I don't burden the school system. Children don't vote lovey, Lesbians do!

Rather fed up with the press. They seem to have it in for the happy couple. Come Sunday there will be a bloody great colour souvenir supplement in the Mail such is their hipocrisy. They seem to have turned on the King, and that bint from GMTV. Oh she really is common. You should have seen her carping on this morning with Tony Blair - now there is a man who's so awful, he really is.

I think Charles is playing a blinder, especially with that little outburst the other day outside the ski chalet. He's not daft, he's rebelling against all that has stifled him for so long. Perhaps he has been listening to The Smiths who said 'I say Charles don't you ever crave
to appear on the front of the Daily Mail dressed in your Mother's bridal veil?' perhaps we may be in for a treat at the newstand on Sunday!

Well, wouldn't you know? It's all change now. Charles & Camilla's wedding has been shunted into Saturday. Lola is thrilled. The poor tormented Ladyfriend is not quite as happy as it means we can go to the ball! I think it might be a bit late in the day to arrange a hat so I might have to wear something smart but casual as I stand cheering by the railings in Windsor. I will be up all Friday night crafting t-shirts saying 'Camilla for Queen' I just know it.

My imaginary tressle table is already buckling under the weight of celebration sausage rolls and cheesey wotsits. The bunting is strewn around my mind like a wind blown land fill site. I'm in a frenzy.

I know I've come a bit late to the monarchy. Those that know me will remember my left wing leanings and my struggle with royalty. But, maturing like an old cheese I have let the light of Charles into my life. I don't care a fig for the rest of his family, they can all go off piste. No, give me the Duchy of Cornwall any day. Up the King!

Only four days to go before Charles and Camilla marry and stop living over the brush. In a mark of support and great pleasure Lola is putting up the bunting all week in celebration. Gawd bless 'em.

I've never hidden my dislike of Diana, never understood why anyone could accept her peculiar ways. How could any man hope to form any kind of bond with a woman who sought publicity more than Victoria Beckham. She never loved his Royal Highness, she was the original wannabee who sacrificed her life in the pursuit of glory and Haute Couture.

Anyway, enough of her, I shall not let her rear her over larged head and upset my tressle table. I will get on with creating a recipe to mark the wedding. I shall use all Duchy Original products, keep it seasonal and munch on it whilst watching the proceeding on Friday. Camilla for Queen!

It's a great day indeed - I have Goldfinches! Two of the buggers on my nyger seed feeder. I am in total delight. This bird feeding lark is enormously rewarding. This afternoon I intend to get to grips with the stock control as I seem to be running down on mixed seed quicker than I thought possible. It's got to be done, afterall, you only get out what you put in.

Just recently I have noticed my mind wandering off way back into my history. Just yesterday a memory popped into my head from my infant school, fresh as if it happened last week. I can only liken it to a glass of lemonade which has been sitting a while, gone a bit flat, and then all of a sudden a bubble springs up and breaks the surface.

It's almost as if the Numbskulls in my brain are having a bit of a clear out and are boxing up old memories and reminiscing as they do so. They are probably pulling out all sorts of things, holding them up and saying 'do we still need this?'. I do hope they hold on to my most cherished thoughts and movements. I shall be bereft if I lose the moment when I was chosen at school to say 'I play the triangle, ting-a-ling-a-ling'