Playing Twister Naked with Dead Cats - (Sort Of)

From New Orleans to Omaha to Iowa and Lizzie's farm on Friday, to find that a mini Tornado had hit on Thursday night, destroying a couple of buildings. The big workshop was a mangled pile of steel about 30 yards from its original position, with its contents strewn across the fields, and a smaller shed ended up half a mile away in the sorghum field. The damage wasn't on a par with the devastation I saw in New Orleans, but my friends literally built this farm themselves. Seeing months of work destroyed in one night, less than 24 hours from when we were due to arrive was very sobering, but not enough to prevent us sitting on the porch, drinking wheat beer and listening to the frog chorus from the lake by the cabin.

Saturday was spent retrieving tools and furniture and other assorted wind-blown objects, and in the evening we had a Jedi-style funeral pyre for three kittens who didn't make it through the storm.

Early Sunday morning, while talking to the Little Ducks across the Pond, I spotted wild turkeys over the ridge. Lizzie called to Andre, who set off after them with his gun in only his skimpy underpants, in his haste to bag a bird. The turkeys took one look and shot off before he could.

Voodoo Queen

Today we went to see Marie Laveau's tomb.

Oh, did I mention that I'm in New Orleans?

'I'm in New Orleans!'

Which is brilliant.

But my luggage isn't.

Which is not brilliant.

I have nothing. This is the third consecutive trip to the States where my stuff has gone awol. Twice before, it turned up the next day, so things weren't so bad. This time, they actually appear to have lost it. It's not turned up anywhere and is currently untraceable.

The worst of it is that I spent 3 hours shopping on Sunday for clothes to bring, as I have no clothes that fit me. 3 hours! And I HATE shopping. And, now, when I should be enjoying jambalaya, crawfish pie and filet gumbo, I have to do it all over again.

So far, I have managed to buy a T-shirt, a cowboy hat and moisturiser. Not exactly what a duck needs for an important conference.

I have even had to borrow a laptop for the evening - mine was in my luggage.

I am in the process of compiling a list of contents while it's still fresh in my mind. So far there are 3 things I am upset about.

My Mighty Sword aka my swiss army knife - a 30th birthday present from the Ginger One which I treasure.

The Cancer Research running vest with my name on, which I wore so proudly last weekend for the Great Manchester Run.

My favourite Guinness T-shirt.

Anyway, back to Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen.

Her tomb has a strange assortment of tributes and gifts in front of it and is covered in graffiti in groups of 3 crosses - like this - XXX. All the other tombs are pristine. The historic St Louis cemetary is bizarre, as all the tombs are built above ground. Because New Orleans is below sea level, you can't bury the dead underground as the graves flood.

There are a few shops with voodoo paraphernalia and XXX marks around the older parts of the city. But I was particularly amused to see one souvenir shop selling voodoo charms and figures. In the window was a sign that read '24 hour CCTV security surveillance on these premises'.

That doesn't exactly instill confidence in the powers of the merchandise, now does it?

Reasons to be Cheerful

Part I

I wasn't the only Duck pounding the streets of Manchester at the weekend. On Saturday JP and Tiddler ran in the Great Manchester Mini Run for 3-8 year olds. One mile around the City of Manchester stadium. No mean feat for a seven- and five-year-old.

They raised £160 for the new children's hospital, got T shirts and medals and better goody bags than we did on Sunday! I ask you. You run 10k and all you get is a packet of lemon-flavoured pine nuts and seeds, and a tube of extra strong mints!

Our fears over Tiddler's running were groundless. As soon as the race started, he set off like a mad eejit. He was buzzing and beat JP by a decent margin. I wonder where he gets it from?

Part II

Tiddler had his first football game on Sunday and I missed it. There was the small matter of the Run, so I do have a note.

They played another tiddler team from Bolton and won 4-0. Get in! Identical Twin's tiddler scored a hat-trick and has trials for the local League 1 side. We have a decent goalie, a boy who can throw in half the length of the pitch at 6, and an utterly brilliant, two-footed, pin-point corner-taking, fast, can-pick-any-spot-in-the-goal-and-put-the-ball-there midfielder. I want to adopt him. His dad's pension plan is a cert. Still, we have him on video, so in 10 years I can sell the footage to the Red Tops when he's playing for United and dating Apple Martin.

Mr Duck took the camcorder, so that I could have my very own Match of The Day, but then was so engrossed in the action, he forgot to follow it with the camera lens and I spent a frustrating time watching off the ball footage, while parents encouraged and Coach shouted instructions -

'TIDDLER, STOP SKIPPING!'

So despite the Mini Run, our little Michael Flatley is still at it, it seems. But he tackled like Wes Brown, defended like Nemanja Vidic and went forward like Patrice Evra when the opportunity arose.

Part III

Mr Duck has gone to St Andrews for a spot of golf, so I booked a babysitter and headed to the Local Pub for the small matter of the game last night. It wasn't the same as being there and I felt more than a pang of regret, but it came pretty damn close, as the passions rose and the faithful willed Van der Sar to save us. Which he did.

Que sera sera
Whatever will be, will be
In Moscow we made it three
Que sera sera

So I'm still grinning.

Hyper

Sunday was the big day. The Great Manchester Run.

I woke up, childishly excited at 4.45am. By 6am I was ironing my name onto my Cancer Research running vest and pinning on my number. By 7.30am, when Mr Duck Senior, a marathon veteran arrived, I was talking nineteen to the dozen and pacing.

I wasn't due to race till 11am! 'You have to calm down or you'll burn out before we even get there' - he counselled.

It was a perfect day for running - sunny but cool. Mr Duck Senior and JP went to watch from the Cheering Bus, while I headed for the Green start. My phone buzzed with good luck messages that warmed my heart.

I just couldn't stop grinning. It was brilliant. I fired up my iPod as I crossed the start gantry at my normal running pace, despite the temptation to set off like a rocket. The course is very flat, unlike my usual routes at home.

I grinned as I ran down Chester Road.

I grinned as I ran up to Old Trafford.

I sang Viva Ronaldo as I ran through the tunnels around my favourite place in the world.

I grinned as I headed towards the canal and the 5k sign.

I felt fantastic, full of energy and slow! So I abandoned my dad's advice and started to run like a mad eejit.

The spectators were calling my name and cheering. I couldn't believe so many people recognised me. Then it occurred to me, perhaps they were mistaking me for a celebrity presenter who shares my first name. They smiled and waved, so I waved and smiled back.

After 8k and a shower, I finally worked out that they were just reading the name that I'd ironed on at 6 that morning.

I waved at my personal support team on the Cheering Bus, who waved back with giant foam fingers.

I sprinted for the finish and posed for an 'after' photo - still grinning and amazed that my teeth weren't black with flies.

I donned my medal and almost headed back to the start. I felt like going round again.

I was hyper all day Sunday, and not much calmer yesterday. Normality was eventually restored today.

With just a hint of grinning, as I stare at the medal on my desk.

And For Dessert?

Now I don't want anyone to get the impression that Yummy Mummy and I are the kind of ladies that lunch all the time, but yesterday, with a last minute day off, we went for lunch again - SomewhereNormal this time, after last month's experience.

YM is bemoaning the pressures on the local Chlamydia Coordinator, in the current climate of public sector targets, not to mention what's expected of the Condom Coordinator*.

I am struggling with the very fact that these are real job titles and ponder the interesting conversation stoppers they could provide at dinner parties, when the inevitable 'and what line of work are you in?' question is raised.

Her work life is so much more interesting than mine, as I keep pointing out. The sexual universe of the under 25s is an utterly alien world, as becomes clearer every time we discuss this.

She then fishes in her handbag and hands me a small, bright orange tube. Now, I don't generally wear my glasses outside work, so I'm holding it aloft and peering closely to read the words on the side, when the waitress appears to clear our plates and then smiles.

At this point, the words 'Fresh Peach-flavoured Water-based Lubricating Gel' finally come into focus.



Hastily, I thrust the tube behind my back. 'God, you're behaving like a naughty schoolgirl,' - YM teases. 'It's perfectly normal'.

'There's 12 flavours including Bubblegum Blast, but that's in a pillow, not in a reusable tube, so it's not very environmentally friendly.'

'Yes, I can see why that would be important, with the Government's green agenda' - I reply, not actually seeing at all. In truth, I haven't yet gone beyond why there needs to be 12 flavours.

* Remind me to tell you one day about the Postman and the Trail of Condoms.

Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering?

It was the usual Sunday morning Match Of The Day ritual. JP commenting in a stream of factual yet inconsequential narrative and Tiddler gawping idiotically, with one hand down the front of his pyjamas.

JP plots, plans and exercises his rather scary intellect memorising the Periodic Table and remembering exactly what he has eaten for the past 7.5 years. Tiddler giggles when someone says the word fart and is fascinated with his willie.

'Who wants Flake icecream?' I asked yesterday. Tiddler's two hands shoot up.

JP then waves his legs in the air as well. 'I've got 4 legs up, so I want more than Tiddler'.

'I've got 5 up including my widgie', announces Tiddler, trumping JP and earning himself an extra scoop.

'They're Pinky and the Brain!' remarked Mr Duck in a perfect, revelatory moment of clarity.

Virginity #2

Losing your virginity has been covered by me before, and yesterday, I'm proud to say, was Tiddler's turn.

For the last home game of the season, Tiddler came with me to OT for his very first game. He has been going to see the Mersey Reds with Mr. Duck and JP of late and has been sporting a Gerrard shirt and singing 'Fernando Torres, Liverpool's number 9' in lieu of 'we all know that Johnny is going to score'.

This was effectively damning me to a life sentence of going to the Theatre of Dreams alone. Not exactly a stretch in Strangeways, I know, but sharing the experience with my son and not having to rely on Amazing Dave to take me when I'm an OAP, was something I have been dreaming of since JP and Tiddler were born. I grew up in a family of Mersey Reds and then married one. It couldn't be my misfortune to rear two as well, could it?

It was utterly brilliant. He pored over his programme, munched his way through a big picnic and it was my delight to thrust him aloft in his United shirt for each of the four goals. My fellow fans welcomed him, tousled his hair and shook his hand, as we marched imperiously towards retaining the Premiership crown.

I took him pitchside for the lap of honour. The proximity of the Great and the Good, smiling and waving just for us, or so it seemed, hopefully secured a corner of his Tiddler heart for the future. He may never share my passion and OT may never be the one place in the world where he feels truly alive, as I do, but as we walked back to the car, eating chips and gravy and singing Viva Ronaldo, I felt a small flicker of what I recognised as hope. Life is good.

Run Tiddler Run

The Great Manchester Run is now just over 2 weeks away. Cancer Relief have sent me a running vest, a plastic warm up top and some tattoos for the occasion. The running is going ok again, although my knee is a bit twingy today. I suspect it has a lot to do with me jumping up and down like a mad eejit, when Paul Scholes found the net last night.

He scores goals galore,
he scores goals.
Paul Scholes,
he scores goals.

The Good News - I have a ticket for Moscow

The Bad News - I can't go due to work commitments. Not kidding.

Tiddler's football training has moved back outside for the summer. He's coming along nicely as a defender and occasional keeper. The only problem is that he can't run. He does this skippy-dancy thing on tiptoes that makes him look like Michael Flatley, preparing to break into Riverdance at any moment.

This has to be sorted out if my pension plan is to bear fruit.

I hatched a plan to resolve this, by entering him and JP in the Great Manchester Mini Run, a one mile race for 3000 tiddlers, the day before the main event on the 18th*

We have been out training - the full one mile. This currently requires at least one rest stop and major league complaining by Tiddler; whereas running with JP is like having Motty with you - constant commentary, no substance.

I now know why I run alone, with just my iPod for company.

They have just been sent special T-shirts, running numbers and sponsor forms to raise money for the local children's hospital. JP has already taken £5 from his piggybank for the fund. It is starting to dawn on them that this is a big deal, and they are feeling proud.

As am I.

*BBC 5pm if you want to catch a glimpse of me collapsing over the finish line. They will also be showing highlights from the mini run.

Bodies and Bacteria

It being our Friday off, Yummy Mummy and I decided to lunch out. We were due for a treat so we went to a LittlePoshPlace in SomewherePosh.

Chocolate leather, marble tables and an unctious, slightly strange owner. It's a beard thing. It was too perfect, too trimmed, too softly-spoken-yet-utterly-mad-scientist-plotting-to-take-over-the-world.

From the black-clad waitress, Yummy ordered tap water, and I ordered sparkling, as I really know how to live.

We were tucking into scallops and calves' livers respectively, when we became aware that the wallpapered panels behind us were in fact collages of photographs of naked men.



I paused on my offal to look more closely. Yes - definitely buttocks and chests and hints of hairy crotches - albeit tastefully captured in sepia.

We chewed on in silence for a while.

Until Madbeard started a discourse on bacteria, when the couple at the next table ordered a bottle of still mineral water.

According to him, the bacterial levels in sparkling mineral water are only surpassed by the levels present in the still version. In drinking such poison, not only do you not cleanse your palate, but you coat it in bacteria, preventing you from the full enjoyment of food and more particularly wine. Tap water, by all accounts isn't very much better, due to chemicals. As he detailed one particularly vicious bacterium, I stole fearful glances at the bottle of Lowland Glen beside me.

Suddenly, the risotto breseola with parmesan crust seemed less appetising.

The couple trying to order still water nodded politely and hurried to the wine list.

'I always wash my mouth out with wine before I drink wine' - announced Madbeard.

I looked up, sharply. Had he really tossed that one in the air? Just put it up there to be shot down?

'So if you always drink wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine, what do you drink to wash your mouth out, before you drink the wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine? If it's wine, do you drink wine before you drink the wine, before you drink the wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine?' - I enquired.

He charged me £5 for the sparkling water.

Littering with Intent

Warning. Look away now if you are of a sensitive disposition.

Our local residential estates are linked by a network of ginnels, so you can reach school, park and friends without taking the car or using the main road. Going green in the suburbs! Yay.

I was heading up our ginnel to a PTA fundraiser at school, when some litter caught my eye. Propped up against a dandelion was a vacuum pack for a Finger Rabbit.

'What an unfortunate name for a child's toy', I thought - particularly after this misunderstanding.

Then I spotted the 'Ann Summers' label at the top.

Two yards on - discarded packaging for a Sex Pistol - and not a Johnny Rotten action figure*.

I carried on walking, only to encounter an empty package for Jumbo Jelly Thai Beads**.

After checking for hidden cameras to ensure I hadn't been set up, I set off once more for school. Without marigolds, and with no wombles in sight to admonish me, I was not a good citizen and could not bring myself to pick up the litter. (Although, on reflection, arriving at school carrying the items, greeting the committee with a cheery 'Everyone had a good weekend?', might have been worth it.)

Is it a little weird that I was secretly rather more impressed than shocked, as I reflected on the level of intent and preparation for the tryst en plein air that clearly had taken place?

Yes, you can pant 'Oh Good Thinking', as a condom is produced at the appropriate moment, when passions overtake reason and it's right here, right now, and hurry up about it!

But is a round of applause at minimum, or some judges' scorecards with 10 printed in bold in order, when the object of your desire produces not one, but three thoughtful gifts for your public-private party?***

Update - March 2009

Keith over at notKeith has done a brilliant cartoon to illustrate the post: Thank you Keith



* Spits and swears with a choice of nose rings.
** If you're thinking 'wtf' as I was, please don't google it. Trust me, let it lie. You'll thank me later.
*** No sign of condom detritus - perhaps they were the edible kind?

Star Struck

I have been lucky enough through work to meet some of my personal heroes over the years, but I still get star struck when confronted with a familar face off the TV, and god forbid I encounter United players, when I just become impossibly giggly and girly; or stand boggle-eyed and open-mouthed like a fish staring into the gaping maws of a deep fat fryer.

I came across Ian Botham on one of his charity runs once, pounding out the miles in pouring rain in Shropshire; just a single car following, no crowds or cameras. Bearing in mind that he has been a hero and heartthrob of mine since my early teens, I stopped the car ahead of him and waited to make a donation. My heart was thumping, as I held out my hand with some money and he ran up to me. He smiled, said thanks and ran on.

And then it happened, I just couldn't stop myself. 'I love you' - I shouted after him.

He didn't turn around.

Some old git pushed past me at Old Trafford the other week in the programme queue. I turned crossly to confront him, when I spotted that it was Bernard Hill. I couldn’t risk the headbutt or the assault with the Sword of Rohan that might have ensued, so I let it go and swung back round, only to accidentally punch Marlon from Emmerdale, who was following behind him.

I'm so the opposite of cool, there isn't even a word for it.

Meat and Two Veg

I have unearthed a new reason for not shopping and in particular for avoiding supermarkets.

I took the Little Ducks to the Local Pub for lunch - armed with our usual kit of A4 paper, washable felt tip pens, Dinky cars and Top Trumps.

We're working our way through the Top Gear Top Trumps, which basically involves handing JP all the cards as he systematically recalls the winning values for every card and also the order in which they are trumped, as you progress through the pack.

'594? - that's the bhp on the Zonda, which you won last round, so that means you've got the DB9 next, so I'll go 0-60 as your answer will be 4.9 seconds and I can beat that with 3.2'.

The only pack I have some chance on is the Star Wars Starfighters, which are mine and in which he has shown little interest thus far. When I find a way to harness this extraordinary talent and beat the casinos I'll let you all know by postcard from Monte Carlo.

Anyway, I'm down to about 6 cards, when the fact that the three old ladies sitting at the next table are talking about sex filters through to my brain. And once there, is impossible to ignore. They are mid 60's to 70's, stereotypical garish rinses in their thinning hair, eating fried fish and drinking double gins.

The Little Ducks are oblivious - 'price - £668,995'

The debate seems to centre on whether Morrisons offers a better supply of potential sex partners than ASDA. There seems to be absolute consensus on the men needing to be younger than them, with the words stamina and better sex drive being greeted with nods of agreement and approval.

'Top Speed - 245mph'

I try desperately to tune out when their voices get lower and they start to use mime and nudging to get their points across.

'Cool rating - 9'

On all levels I try to see this as a good thing. That sexually-active septuagenarians cruising the produce aisles, hungry for toy boys is a natural and beautiful part of growing old disgracefully.

Instead, all I can picture is three hags squeezing the melons and checking out the plums with lascivious smiles, stinking of gin and fish as they eye up the shelf stackers.

B'Dum Tsh

I am utterly rubbish at jokes. I am usually the last person to get them and I am even worse when it comes to April Fools. The word gullible could have been invented just for me. In fact, I think I'll edit the Wikipedia entry so it just reads

'Gullible (adj.) - See Duck'.

When I was about 17, April Fools' Day fell on the last day of term before Easter. In assembly, the headmaster advised the school that there would be a section of the school grounds cordoned off during the holidays, as botanists would be studying a rare strain of blue grass which had been found there.

I remember thinking 'how interesting', then thought no more about it.

Until 23 years later when an old school friend reminisced about the blue grass April Fool on Friends Reunited, scoffing at the Head for a pathetic attempt which hadn't fooled anyone. I didn't come clean. Perhaps I should contact the McWhirters? Surely this must be the Guinness world record for the longest running April Fool?

My record hasn't improved much over the years and I was caught out by Virgin Radio this year.

I spent the entire day outraged at the plan by Brussels to phase out pint glasses by the end of 2008 and introduce plastic half glasses with slogans in their stead, as a measure to curb binge drinking. I applauded the breakfast DJ who gave the Welsh Euro MP on the line a really hard time about it, although I was a little uncomfortable at how rude he was about him personally. But as I don't read the Daily Mail, I let it go with a few sad head shakes and barely audible tuts. Two days later I heard the DJ mocking all the listeners who'd bombarded the station with emails and texts protesting the ban. I took small comfort in not being alone in my naivete.

There are 3 jokes* which I totally get, so I stick to them when called upon to produce gems of humour.

The zebra, the horse in the bar and the newt joke. That's 3 jokes, not one joke about all 3. That wasn't an attempt at a joke either, the explanation about the 3 jokes not 1.

*I do know a really long one about a jockey and a boiled chicken, but I totally fail to deliver it without dissolving into premature giggles about halfway, frustrating the audience and slightly wetting myself on occasions.

Oh, and I went running yesterday for the first time since I hurt my knee back in February. Knee held up really well, so I'm back into training for the Great Manchester Run next month. I'm thinking of laying off the black stuff in preparation.

Happy To Oblige

Dear Customer,

Welcome to Picture of a Duck.

Thank you for searching Google for 'Mr. Duck Sex Toy'*

Your order will be dispatched as soon as the Plaster of Paris dries.

We are pleased to accept all major credit cards and Paypal.


Best wishes

Duck


*I kid you not. Full stop and everything.

Do Not Disturb

They are all ganging up on me.

Midnight - return from Local Pub. Look forward to good night's sleep. No work tomorrow.

Late O'Clock: 'Mummy, I've got a nosebleed'

Stupid O'Clock: creak thud thud thud, bang trickle trickle trickle bang, thud thud thud creak*

Really Stupid O'Clock: creak thud thud thud, bang trickle gush trickle drip cough cough bang, thud thud thud creak **

Ridiculously Early O'Clock: 'Mummy I've got another nosebleed'

What Passes for Morningtime in Tiddlerworld O'Clock: creak thud thud thud, bang trickle trickle trickle fart bang, thud thud thud, very loud creak, sniff ***

'Mummy...?'

1. 'You know that thing over the window' - 'The Curtain Pole?' - 'Yes. How does it work?'

2. 'Mummy. How did Daniel die? - 'Which Daniel?' - 'The baby off Emmerdale'

3. 'Mummy. When there's a derby game, do United and City get half the Derby players each?'

4. 'Mummy. My Spywatch is on Rio de Janerio time. Can you reset it?'

5. 'Mummy. Did you know carrots are good for you. They make you glow in the dark.'

6. 'Mummy, I ate some pineapple at school' - 'Really? (in disbelief. Tiddler doesn't do fruit and veg. or indeed, any food that isn't brown) - What colour was it?' - 'The same as all the other pineapples'.

7. 'Mummy, where do Toppenham Hopspurs play?

8. And Fulham?

9. And Barcelona?'

10. 'Mummy?' - 'Yes, Tiddler?' - 'Is it Morningtime?'

* JP
** Mr Duck
*** Tiddler

At The Third Stroke

I love it when we hit British Summertime.

It means the clock in my car will be telling the right time.

Until October.

That is.

I finally got my hands on the object of my desire the other day and I was not disappointed. He was as sexy in real life as in his pictures and when I stroked his face for the first time I knew he was the one for me.

Unfortunately, he belongs to someone else, and I reluctantly gave him up after one last caress.

But one day...

Glorious Mud

Sunday being a day of sunshine and inspired by Mister Ronaldo's sublime backheel, Tiddler and I took to the park for some 1 on 1 action.

'That Boy Ronaldo...'

Anyway, I digress.

To say it was muddy after Saturday's downpour is an understatement. The magnitude of which is in the order of applauding politely and saying 'Nice Shot, Cristiano', when screaming with joy and being lifted bodily into the air and swung round by the fireman standing next to you is much more appropriate.

JP and Tiddler are incapable of playing outdoors without getting completely caked in mud, and occasionally, in Tiddler's case, dogshit. So I was resigned to stripping him off on the doorstep and commiting his entire ensemble to the washing machine with a big dose of ACE after the game, before we had even left the house.

I hadn't banked on him recruiting another Tiddler in the park for our game, nor on him slide-tackling, pushing and generally kicking him until he was as filthy as Tiddler.

I also hadn't banked on Second Tiddler's chainsmoking, rottweiler of a frizzy-permed grandmother suddenly spotting his state of cleanliness, or rather lack of it.

She marched over.

I braced myself to bring my Dimac skills to my defence. I think it's perfectly reasonable to get your own Little Ducks dirty, but in hindsight, making other people's kids look like a 'before' shot in a Daz advert isn't so clever.

'Will you be here next week?' she asked.

I nodded slowly, wondering if she was planning to return with reinforcements from the cast of Shameless.

'L's had a brilliant time playing football with you and Tiddler. Can he play with you again?'

Perfect Shuffle Karma

Mr Duck's had a virus all week, so I volunteered to go to Tesco for some shopping, which, as you know, I hate.

Still, I had a relatively short list, so how bad could it be?

The problem is, I don't know where anything is, and there appears to be no logic to the store layout, whatsoever. When you get to the finger rolls and think, 'what shall we have on them?', you then have to retrace your steps about 5 aisles to get to the ham.

Any half-wit knows you start with the bread when you make a sandwich, not the filling! Every little doesn't bloody help, from where I'm standing.

I could just feel my blood starting to boil, when i remembered my iPod.

I love my iPod and today I had perfect shuffle karma.

You know what I mean.

When the lovely nano selects just the right tracks for your mood and you end up grinning like a mental and going 'Yes, Yes, Oh Yes', very loud as the random playlist unfolds, rather like Meg Ryan demonstrating her orgasm technique in that café in When Harry Met Sally, only louder, more realistically - and in a supermarket.

Here's what it conjured up today:

Duchess - Stranglers
All You Need is Love - The Beatles
She Bangs The Drums - Stone Roses
Misty Morning, Albert Bridge - Pogues
Ole Black 'N' Blue Eyes - Fratellis
Boatman - Levellers
Bankrobber - Clash
Konstantine - Something Corporate
Apologise - OneRepublic
Mrs Robinson - Simon and Garfunkel
How Soon Is Now - Smiths
At The River - Groove Armada
Bad Days - Space
Parklife - Blur
Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division

Of course, it took me several months to figure out that the reason my iPod was clever and only picked music I liked on shuffle was because it only contains music I have uploaded and therefore, de facto, like.

But still, finding the appropriate tune for the setting and my ever-changing mood, can't just be guesswork, can it?

Crossed Wires

I don't like rabbits. I think they are evil creatures. Particularly Mrs Second Hand Car Dealer's house rabbit, who takes great delight in leaping out and scaring the crap out of me. It shoots out from behind a sofa, leaps into the air without warning and then suddenly changes direction. And they stare.

Long and hard with their beady eyes. You can't outstare a rabbit.

And they can bite through the sleeve of a denim jacket in seconds.

And they're everywhere*. The Second Hand Car Dealers have three, the Yummy Mummys have two, the Scots down the road have two.

But I don't let them get the better of me, oh no. I do my share of rodent sitting of a weekend, as required.

Sister in China is out-Borough and has no knowledge of the local fascination with the creatures.

So when he was emailed late one night by a friend to say that she had a date with a rabbit, he was somewhat shocked at her candour. Where he lives, this is what passes for a rabbit.

*Please show your gratitude in the usual way for the fact that I resisted the temptation to say they breed like rabbits.


Keeganwatch week 9

He has won a match. I have lost the will to post. Skybet has my roll of tenners. There will be no more on the subject.

Well, perhaps one final Keeganism

On winning against Fulham - 'It was a great result and it might stop people saying Newcastle have not won under Kevin Keegan.' Only 'might', Kevin?

Oeufs à la Neige

On Saturday, I spent hours in the icy and often snowy wind tidying the Purple Garden ready for the great Easter Egg Hunt on Sunday morning. With Easter being early, the garden is not really at its Spring best with the snowdrops gone and tulips still to appear. Mid April is much more convenient, if you're listening in the Vatican.

I needn't have bothered, as all Saturday's hard work was buried under 6 inches of snow on Sunday morning, which made concealing the eggs considerably more challenging than usual, with tell-tale footprints giving away all the locations. The Little Ducks and their friends still had a good time, pausing only to throw snowballs, in between searching for shiny eggs, chicks and bunnies. We watched from the kitchen and stuffed ourselves with sausage butties.

I did feel for residents in a nearby cul de sac, who woke to find a giant penis outlined in footprints in the snow outside their houses. I hope the culprit remembered to wipe the trail of prints leading to his front door!