From watching the Channel 4 news the other night, with William smuggypants Hague getting a hard time, you'd have thought the only people who could have done a worse job of getting people out of Libya would have been the people at the Premier model agency. If it didn't involve swearing or crying, it appeared that they couldn't do it. Well, that's how it looked on the documentary about them. Of course, they probably all thought they were fabulous.
I have had, separately, visits from my parents this week. My dad gave us 6 and a half hours of monologues, a bit like having Ronnie Corbett round for lunch but without the garish jumpers. One episode was about the new, unforgiving, concrete steps in his local football ground. We had tangents of tangents, involving the respective swimming accomplishments of the daughters and the weekly house-share arrangements of the commuting father of a family, before we got to the mother helping some of these old boys get safely down said steps. Priceless.
I have been trying to get my dad to try life online, and got information from his library about sessions where you could dip your toe in and try mucking about on computers. For some reason, today my mum was in fits about the image of her ex-husband as a silver surfer. How they ever got together I will never know...
Other events this week, apart from the skating, have been a funeral for a goldfish. Man, I dug that hole deep and then we planted a bright green mexican orange blossom (for an orange fish), to make sure no cat would try to dig it up and play keepie-uppies with the poor departed thing