Welcome back

I am totally engrossed in Murdoch-world – it’s terrific. Trouble is though, that kind of carry-on slows down my mornings a tad, as a two hour readathon in bed would. Yes I know, I might just as well enjoy it while I still can, as I am so constantly being reminded. I thank you.

So, where are we today – and who the Pickwick Papers are you? Ah Wednesday – yes, let’s see. Right, I’ve got it – went to Leclerc with Michael, for like Old Mother Hubbard, I had no bones in my cupboard (just a couple of skeletons in my closet). Nearly had a seizure at the checkout. Who the flapping-heck is drinking all this bloody booze sweetie? Just a weekly shop for me – working mum.

Back indoors I stashed my loot, then set off into town for some odds and sods. I queued up in the post office for half an hour like a good citizen, and do you know what? When I asked for four stamps for Angleterre the woman in the purple lipstick said ‘Non!’ I looked at her, astonished – purple really wasn’t her colour. She looked back at me as if to say ‘What do you think this is, a bloody buggery post office?’ I showed her my teeth, and she showed me her conkers. It was game, set and match, and I left empty-hearted.

I needed a new notebook, as mine is full of notes (mainly D flat) so, after trawling around three bookshop/stationer type places I found something vaguely suitable, although not quite up to my usual exquisite taste. Now picture this: a little bookshop, mid-afternoon in a sleepy back street in Bergerac. How long do I have to wait to handover my three euros? About twenty-five blinking minutes while Madame de la Fafafafacelift-central has a pile of about thirty kiddie books individually gift wrapped and labelled. I marched back home with a bee in my bonnet, a flea in my ear and a fly in the ointment. Have I had enough of Bergerac? Well, the last series was a little lazily directed I felt.

A cup of tea and the second act of Tosca. Blimey – there’s old Scarpia trying to get it on with Tosca while they torture poor old Cavaradossi who you can hear a-groaning and a-wailing like a stuck pig in the background. Then they discover Angelotti (who was hiding in the well – keep up at the back) has only been and gone and poisoned himself, so he’s out of the game, the daft blighter. Scarpia, gagging for a shag makes a deal with Tosca (something distinctly dodgy like blank bullets at Cavaradossi’s execution) but Tosca’s got hold of a knife and…oh my God, what an ooogi mess! There’s blood and entrails up the wall, across the ceiling and down the back of the sofa. Those cushion covers will need a boilwash, or my name isn’t Trudy Scrumptious. I don’t know if I can bear to listen to Act 3 now. It’s enough to make one tut.

A swift G&T round at MM&A’s (it’s all in code!) then home to cassoulet and cocoa, and a spot more Murdoch-magic. Gotta getta bit ov cullcha aincha?