A the two-leggeds sat down to tea last night, with your truly helpfully hanging around to tidy up anything that may accidentally fall onto the floor, the conversation turned to the news of the day. "So, Maggie Thatcher's dead then," says me Dad. "Yeah, I quite liked her actually," says me Mum. "Was she a singer?" enquires the lad, I can never remember his name, Tidy Your Room I think it might be. Or Get Off That Sodding Xbox. It's one of those. Still, David Cameron has just sent his official letter of condolence to the Thatcher residence. It starts, "I regret to inform you that due to recent events, you now have too many bedrooms..."
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.