The school holidays, don't you just HATE them. Especially the school bloody summer bloody holidays. My peaceful snooze in the sunny spot by the log basket is perpetually interrupted every twenty minutes or so by another bloody caller for the boy. Every bleedin bloody buggering twenty chuffing minutes there's a knock at the bleedin bollocking door "Is George in?" It's got so bad now that me Mum had had a sign made up, and laminated mind in case of inclement weather, "George is not in. So please don't knock and don't ring. Thank you." Does that make any difference, does it balls. Every twenty buggering minutes. "Ring/knock. Is George in?" Can't they bloody buggering bollocking well read these idiots? "Erm, I though he may be in and you'd forgotten to take the sign down." No we haven't right. He's not in so bugger off you bleedin buggers or I'll bite your bleedin bollocks right off I buggering well will.
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.