It's easier to get your knee through the eye of a camel...or something

Hey, I’m on the mend. Yes siree, felt a helluva lot better this morning and bounded around like a demented yet energised slinky in reverse mode. Jonathan Ross spoke to me through the medium that is the internet and I chuckled into my All Bran pétales (flakes in your parlance). The sun beamed down, the sky was blue and a robin pecked busily on my creeper.

When things could hardly get any better, I discovered to my delight and joy, lying in the hallway, a package from Sunset Avenue, Aurora, IL! What could it be? I ripped open the padded-envelope (100% recycled material, I thank you) with thinly disguised glee and excitement. Yes, it had arrived. At last! My Tosca CD – a 1953 recording with Maria Callas and Giuseppe di Stefano no less. I was in seventh heaven (one to six were busy and suggested I call back later for a cancellation) that my package had braved the cruel Illinois weather and travelled all the way to me in old Bergerac town through snow drifts and raging seas on the back of a blind, one-legged camel with crippling arthritis, severe learning difficulties and a dodgy compass. Well, there had to be some reason why it had taken just under a month first class airmail for goodness sakes. Nevermind that. It’s here. Now I have just under two weeks to learn all the words so I can sing-along-a-Puccini at the Bordeaux Opera House.

But first, that pile of ironing. Then, Act 1. Oh the drama of it all. There’s Tosca, already with her nose out of joint at the mere mention of the Marchesa Attavanti, now here comes the doomed Angelotti and Cavaradossi, caught in the crossfire, and the dastardly Scarpia – boo, hiss, get off! I was quite caught up in the action, before breaking off for a bowl of soup.

I took a walk. Can you guess where? That’s right. Through the round window. I crossed the old bridge for an alternative view of Bergerac, and for my trouble I got a heady blast of raw sewage odour which had me gagging into my scarf. I saw a man empty the contents of his Citroen van into the shallows at the edge of the Dordogne. What on earth was he up to? It all looked a bit suspicious. I pushed through the undergrowth, like a furtive Bill Oddie, for a closer look. He was washing his leeks of course. Nothing like a bit of river water to get the caked-on mud out of your crevices, I'll say.

Back indoors I wrote like a banshee, but that gave me backache, so I reverted to my normal position. In the background Robert Smith belted out a few raucous tunes, but I grew weary of his whining so I chucked him a few euros and suggested he try next door. The Moiselle photoshoot beckoned, the results of which are published here finally, for all those who whinged about my endless dull, boring and uninspired pictures of the Dordogne. Are you happy now? Well, I thought the river shots were quite good, but there’s no accounting for taste these days...mumble mumble mumble [to fadeout].