Has been round to our house again, this time picking up Mrs Snow the hamster. Unlike Stanley, the cross-dressing transexual guinea pig that was really a she. Mrs Snow was, as per her name, a female. She lived a peaceful and simple existence, in her little cage on George's desk and now rests cocooned in cotton wool in a Nike Air Max Triax box at the bottom of the garden. The rest of us pets, Speedy, Gizmo, Muffin, and myself of course, scan each other anxiously wondering who will be next. Nervously awaiting the arrival of the next pair of trainers, and pondering how long it will be before it's box and it's macabre but eco-friendly contents will be going to join the others underneath the hedge. RIP Mrs Snow. Why not donate towards her marble and diamond encrusted headstone by hitting the PayPal button on me Dad's website? Just as a mark of hamster respect like? I mean it won't get wasted on a big piss up or nothing, it's for legitimate out of pocket funeral expenses, not lager.
You couldn't make it up could you. I spent much of the weekend dozing on the sofa watching telly. Glastonbury was on, although sad to say there was no Snoop Dog, Bone Jovi or any other canine related artists. The big news seemed to be the lack of female headliners and now we know why as one scored a spectacular own goal. She missed her slot cos she was doing her hair. It takes ages she said. Why NOT start doing your hair well before your show time. Aaagh no where's my handbag I've left it in the car, I've got to back to fetch it.