Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring

Star-tling

Until now, I've always thought the horoscopes in the TV Times were nothing special - just everyday horoscopes that are entertaining only for their fine brand of silliness. Today, however, Sally Kirkman far surpassed my expectations by offering the best horoscope I have ever read and, I suspect, ever will.

"Taurus: Continue to bang your head against a brick wall and it'll cave in."

I'm only grateful I'm not struggling with anything just now. I don't know what I'd do.

At Least They Pack Efficiently

On the way back from pricing up items for the car boot sale we're going to to raise money for my jaunt to Peru next year, my mum and I stopped off at the Red Brick Mill so she could buy a fancy birthday card. (For those of you not in the know, the Red Brick Mill is a converted mill which is now home to lots of places selling highly fancy and even more highly expensive kitchenware, furniture and other such things.) That task achieved we milled about (ha!) for a while, admiring all the nice things. You can buy special devices for cutting the foil off wine bottles from these people. You can buy pasta hats. But among all this entirely sensible, albeit unnecessary, stuff, there was one item that was not only extremely crazy but also mildly terrifying.

Hidden among the fancy, modern, desirable bathroom fittings was a device that should never have been inflicted upon this world.

A toilet.

A white, porcelain toilet.

A white, porcelain toilet with a £899 price tag.

A toilet... which was square.

I have never before sat upon a display toilet in a furniture and fittings shop, but by God I sat on that one. Looking back, I can only wish that I hadn't. It was deeply, deeply unsettling, and I fear I may be carrying the scars with me for a long time to come.

Just For The Record (And Those Of You Who Don't Read The Comments)

Chrissy thrashed me at boules. 13-3. She was great, and I was rubbish.

Because I Won't Get Away With Not Mentioning It

OK, I do have another story from my last jaunt to Birmingham that I should share. I geniunely forgot to last time, but as if I leave it any longer those who already know it will think I'm trying to get out of it, I'm going to put it up now so you can all laugh at me.

So, on Tuesday, the day I was coming back, I packed up all my stuff, we had a nice barbecue, played boules, and finally set off to Digbeth Coach Station (which has, incidentally, been spruced up, although only in the places where it didn't need sprucing).

We arrived early, so we killed time reading through the menu in the window of Chris's Café of Digbeth (it actually has "of Digbeth" on the sign, in fancy script, in the hope that it will make it look classy) and then sat in the waiting room of the station for twenty minutes. By then it was about time to hang around the coach and see how long it was possible to put off getting on, so we wandered over.

The coach wasn't there. This puzzled us.

There was a coach travelling on the same route, in the opposite direction. There were coaches going to all manner of other places. There was even a double-decker coach, of all things, headed for London. But not mine. So we turned and looked at the monitors.

The coach wasn't there, either. This puzzled us yet more.

After a moment's hard thought and a look at the information point (closed, as always), we decided we'd wait for the delayed coach and see if I could get on that. And, as is my habit when waiting around a station, especially when puzzled, I looked at my ticket again.

There was a good reason why my coach wasn't there, or on the monitors, or anywhere else. And it would have had to be very delayed indeed for me to catch it now.

This was because I had booked it for the day before.

We turned around and went home.

(In other news, I got As in all my AS levels today.)

The Usbourne Guide To Laziness

Well, while I was down at Chrissy's this week, we were sorting out her drawers of junk before she goes off to university, and among many things which I rather suspect you wouldn't enjoy as much as I did (well, I suppose you'd enjoy the stale praline rather more than I did, but that's another matter) we found a wonderful book-and-cassette comination, Welsh For Beginners. Now, this, in itself, is obviously a fine book and one which deserves to be used. But this wasn't a one-off. I used to have another book in the series, French For Beginners, and very nice it was too. It was filled with lovely drawings of French people saying their French things.

Or was it?

Welsh For Beginners, you see, is filled with similarly lovely drawings of people saying their things. In fact, they're so similar they're identical. The only change is the language of the speechbubbles. Now, I don't know how far this extends, but if it's the same throughout the book as it was on the cover it's a scandal indeed. Although on the plus side, it means a lot of people know how to order a croissant from a pleasant little boulangerie in Llanidloes.

(Incidentally, I should mention that this wasn't the most interesting thing we did all week, just the one I chose to write about. I know what you're like. Yes, this means you, unless it doesn't.)

I Had A Dream Where I Was Eating Large, Foot-Shaped Marshmallows

When I woke up, all my socks were gone.

No, really. I came downstairs and the first thing my brother said to me was "All your socks are gone."

This was not a satisfactory explanation.

After a moment's pressing, he explained that my socks, which had been hung on the washing line overnight, had all been mysteriously snatched away, leaving only a garden littered with clothespegs and one lucky sock that had escaped. He also explained that he had taken the liberty of attaching a ransom note to the pole holding the line up, telling us to leave £72550 in a sports bag near the motorway bridge.

The sock is now sitting in a sealed freezer-bag, labelled "Evidence". We are currently nowhere near solving this mystery. More details as they come.

What A Lot Of Pretty Things

I would write some extensive things about my week in the Lake District with Chrissy, but I rather suspect I'd be indulging myself somewhat. Well, except perhaps for the bits about the Pencil Museum, but then I'd hate to ruin that in case you ever go. So, I won't bore you with a detailed account of the trip, unless of course I run into you face to face. Going on and on in person is much easier because nobody can prove it, and much more fun too.