Jaywalkers

I finished Mum's Jaywalkers. I was really pleased with them. The yarn really suits the pattern (it's the June sock club yarn from the Yarn Yard).

However, they don't fit. Unlike me, Mum does not have fat ankles. And I am not a tight knitter. But she can't get them on! They'll have to be passed on to someone who's a complete twiglet. Maybe I'll send them to Amy Winehouse.

Does *your* home have a cat infestation?

Ours does. Spot the evidence.

Celebrity spotting

Out with Jazzy Jaff and and the Fresh Princess last night. As we walked past Carluccio's in Tunbridge Wells on our way to the car park, who should we see sitting in the window seat but...

the one and only

the legendary

...TOM BAKER!

Holy shit! We walked past two or three times just to make sure.

He lives near T Wells somewhere. Mum once caught his eye as she was going up and he was going down the escalators in Royal Victoria Place.

Suspicious behaviour

On the Tube the other day I saw a guy wearing a hoodie with 'HAMAS' written on the back. Blimey, I thought, he's risking a bullet (or five) in the back of his head. Then he moved the strap of his bag and I realised the word was actually 'BAHAMAS'.

A philosophical enquiry

If I knit a sock, frog it, rewind the yarn and knit it again, is it the same sock?

The Cat Poo Song

There's a cat poo on the lawn
tra-la-la-la-la
There's a cat poo on the lawn
tra-la-la-la-la-la
Cat poo on the lawn
tra-la-la-la-la
It looks like a sugar in a plum (plum plum)

Show me a motion
tra-la-la-la-la
Show me a motion
tra-la-la-la-la-la
Show me a motion
tra-la-la-la-la
It looks like a sugar in a plum (plum plum)

repeat ad nauseum

Fox in the bin

So, early this morning I was woken by the sound of a fox rummaging through our rubbish. I leant out of the window -- it was dark so I could only hear the fox -- and went 'psssstttttt!' as loudly as I could. I heard the fox skittering off down the lane.

When I cleared up the rubbish that Fantastic Mr Fox had spread all over the pavement I discovered what he'd eaten: manky old Greek salad, with feta cheese of almost indescribable stinkyness; burnt aubergine rind; maggoty cat food remains and the pickled jalapenos from Mr S's kebab.

What he didn't eat, however, were the orange and strawberry creams left over from a box of Roses. Even a fox won't touch those foulest of chocolates.