Don't mention the war!

After yesterday’s zip-a-dee-doo-dah start, today was a little slower to get off the tarmac. I blame Douglas Coupland for writing such an unputdownable book. Anyway, everything got underway by mid-morning, although I did find myself in the most peculiar position on trying to solve a Guardian crossword with my erstwhile colleagues through the medium of email. Now, I’ve done one by text messaging once, but this was a whole new ballgame altogether. (Go on, en masse say “A whole new ballgame.” Thanks.) Strangest thing of all, M&A smuggled a copy of today’s Guardian through customs, so there I was last thing before I went to bed struggling with the very same crossword some twelve hours later. It’s a small world, but I wouldn’t like to paint it. Anyway, Lobster pot, 5 letters – what was that? It’s been driving me nuts – or is that the steering wheel on the front of me trousers?

So, Christmas shopping in Bergerac – what’s that all about? Well, a sixty plus year old, fifteen stone transvestite wearing so much eye makeup she had to tip her head back to get her eyes open, dithering over the foundation and holding up the queue in Sephora for a start. Then trying to find a decent Christmas card was a challenge all of its own (they seem to go in more for New Year’s cards here). I had to come back to the house for a sit down and a cup of tea. Then, after wrapping a few presents I got all Christmassy and stuck a few golden cherubs in my niches. To call it camp would be like calling Julian Clary a tad fey. Well, whatever, needs must and these are difficult times. I’m going to get a tree in the market on Saturday, God willing. Judging by recent reports, if it’s 6ft tall it will be double the size of the one in Trafalgar Square, and last year’s one was puny enough. Has there been a mix up – or are the Norwegians just phasing out the gesture and hoping we won’t notice? At this rate, in ten year’s time they’ll just send over a little twig in a polystyrene cup, not big enough to support a bauble.

Where was I? Oh yes, more writing during the rest of the afternoon, then M&A appeared for aperitifs after their 5 day sojourn in St Evenage. It’s lovely to have them back. We were due at an Italian Restaurant along the river for 7.30pm to meet two friends of M&A’s, and we arrived a touch late. Now I won’t go into too much detail here (I never know who might be reading) but somewhere along the line it all went terribly wrong. The food was pretty poor, well I say pretty poor, it was pants. Actually, pants would have been nice in comparison. My dried ham was like old boot leather, and as for the cheesecake – we guessed garlic flavour. It was like nothing on earth. But the food aside, it still all went spectacularly wrong, and the moral is never to discuss politics with somebody who…if I just say Bush I think you'll get the idea.

Back to mine to calm down. By the way, if you want to read the unabridged version of what happened this evening, you will have to wait for the book (working title: ‘Bedbugs & Beaujolais’) to be published! It’ll be there, warts ‘n’ all. As the adverts for the Andy Warhol diaries put it: ‘If you’re in it…you’re in it!’

Can I go to bed now? I think I’ve got one of my heads coming on. By the way, if you've noticed that the length of these entries has been increasing, then blame John, who seems to be in the market to outblog me, and I'm having in none of it! Do you hear me, none of it! Oh, hello matron.