I have just eaten a tart.


My upper lip is sticky with jam, and I have crumbs on my jumper.


I have got a cold.

I have used 27 tissues.


I have just had a cup of tea.

It was nice.


Channel 4 has a program called: You are what you eat.

It is all about plump people's poo.

I do not like it.


It has been sitting on the sideboard growing a fine layer of mould for five days now.

The lasagna, I mean. Not me.

I have been too busy talking to the wall. There is one particular part of the wall in the living-room which seems to show the faint outline of Mrs Colin's silhouette in its shadows.

I'm sure I'm not just imagining it.

I am going to have lasagna for dinner tonight, I think.


"Where are you going with that suitcase?"

"Brighton. To live with Brenda"

"What time will you be back. I'm planning to make lasagna tonight"

"Goodbye Colin"


The rain is pouring down and down. It is a good day for staying in.

Luckily I never go out.

A long night's journey into day

I cannot sleep. To pass the time, I am lying in bed, staring directly upwards to count the nobbles on the textured ceiling.

One nobble, two nobbles, three ...

Oh, wait a minute. It's dark, being night time. I can't see the nobbles. Damn.

Still, it could be worse. I could be having nightmares about scary monsters or having sex with the entire cast of Emmerdale.


I av bing snifig glou

A new dawn

This morning, my horoscope tells me that 2007 is going to be the year in which I ... oh, I don't know. I'm going back to bed.