Me Dad was waiting in the queue at Asda the other day when the old lady in front of him was struggling to put her items through the till. So, Galahad that he is, he helped her with the bread, milk and sugar etc and asked her, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" She said "yes, could you get my purse out of my handbag please?" Me Dad said "Of course I will, is this it under you arm?" She said "No get off, that's one of my tits." That's what he reckons anyway, the fat get. Still not feeling too chipper, so pooh count is somewhere in the teens today. I gave up counting after twelve.

Housewives: When nipping out to the shops, remember to carry a stiff broom in the boot of your car. You can then use it to sweep the broken glass to the side of the road every time you have a minor accident.

Apologies for the lack of blogging this past few days, I've been as sick as, well a dog actually. Huey and Rolf are my new best buddies. Think I must have ate some cat shit by mistake, I hate cats the mercenary little buggers. If a dog kept a diary it would go something like this: Monday. Ran round the garden. Great! Chased a few cats. Great! Went for a walk. Fantastic! Played stick. Awesome! Had me tea. Brilliant! Slept on me bean bag. Chillin! What a brilliant day, can't wait for tomorrow. Whereas a cats diary would go like this (probably in a German accent): Monday, day 572 of my captivity. Amused myself by half killing a selection of small rodents and secreting them around the house. Then kept flicking them to get them to move, then catching them again. Ripped open a mouse's chest just because I can. Passed on tea, I'm not eating muck out of a tin. Shit in the corner of the lounge in the hope that it may disgust them enough to free me. Bit the heads off some baby sp