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.