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.