This doesn’t need a Tiger Team

My few days in London are over and I must return to serve the rest of my sentence in Bergerac. Ha! I was standing at Crossharbour station waiting for a Docklands train as if it was the most mundane thing in the world for me to be travelling back to my place in France, and it suddenly occurred to me as I tutted over how long I had to wait for the train and how little time I have left of my sabbatical, that plenty of people would give their eye teeth to have the opportunity of spending six weeks in France without any responsibility. I quickly bucked up my ideas and came up with a more positive plan of action.

So, the journey was as easy as abc. Tube to Liverpool Street, Stanstead Express, no queue at check-in, no queue at security, bit of shopping in WHSmiths, Boots and Books Etc, leisurely stroll to the departure gate, board on time, take off on time, touch down in Bergerac fifteen minutes early and before my feet have touched the ground I’m sitting in the airport bar pouring a pint-sized glass of ice cold lager down my gullet. And to top it all, an invitation to dine at L’Enfance de Lard? Can my life get any better than this?

I quickly unpacked then dashed across to the restaurant in time for aperitifs, then tucked into Michael’s most delicious onion soup which is topped with toasty bread and lashings of tasty melted emmenthal cheese, then chicken roasted over the fire with the most delicious lemony sauce. There was a tart (but it would be rude to say who it was) and scrumptious Bergerac red wine. I returned home happy and full and fell into bed – remembering to move the hot water bottle out of the way first.

OK. Now I’ve got the updates out the way, there is the small matter of the competition I set last week. The idea was that after reading about somebody who had contacted Queen Victoria, Stan Laurel and Pat Phoenix through electronic voice phenomenon (EVP) you came up with three equally oddly matched dead people. To say I have been overwhelmed with suggestions would be like saying I can speak fluent French. That is to say it would be an utter lie. Do you want to know how many people actually bothered? Do you? A grand total of two. I go to all this trouble and that’s the best you can do. The suggestions so far are:

Entry One:
Minnie Cauldwell
Ena Sharples
and what's her name?

Entry Two:
Ghengis Khan
Mother Teresa
Lord Lucan

The first one is amusing, but may have to be disqualified for not embracing the spirit of the competition which was based upon the disparate nature of the characters. At the moment, entry number two from somebody called H is in the lead. I’m going to keep this going until Sunday so, go on, have a go. What have you got to lose, apart from your dignity?

I also wanted to share the following which made me laugh so hard that the seat on the plane reclined without warning and the person sitting behind me spilt their coffee. This is an abridged version lifted straight from The Guardian, so you may have already seen it:

Testicle torn off by ex-lover

A jilted woman admitted ripping off her ex-lover’s testicle with her hands after he refused to have sex with her.

Amanda Monti, 24, flew into a rage after her former boyfriend, Geoffrey Jones, 37, rejected her advances at the end of a drunken house party. She yanked off his left testicle, which was later handed to him by a friend with the words: “That’s yours.”

Monti, of Birkenhead, Merseyside, pleaded guilty to wounding at Liverpool crown court yesterday. Monti told Mr Jones she wanted to discuss their relationship and offered him sex. When he refused, she grabbed his face and a struggle ensued.

Mr Jones threw Monti out of the house. She then smashed a window. Another struggle took place and Monti was knocked to the floor, from where she pulled down Mr Jones’s shorts.

Monti initially tried to hide the testicle by putting it in her mouth, but released it. Doctors were unable to reattach the organ.

Now if that doesn't bring a tear to your eye, then nothing will!