Tolerance...

... managing marvellously to have some for Neighbor Next Door With The Tidy Yard this morning. Yes, the missing "u" in the word, and the tidy yard. Whose fence post I fixed.

This morning all hell was breaking out the other side of the party wall. Lost-the-plot dad screaming at their little boy, boy screaming back.... at first I cranked up the 6Music volume. Then I got a glass to the wall - to check out what exactly was going on. Seems they were trying to get a contact lens in, for his lazy eye. He's 4, for chrissakes, and was getting totally distraught. And the dad was getting horrible.... I nearly went round there. And then I thought, ah, they wouldn't do this if they didn't have to. And they must hear a fair bit from our side when the 14 year old is on one. It all died down soon enough. And I would have felt awful wading in at their doorstep. And all sorts of awkwardness.

And now the tw*t is HAMMERING - aaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh. When I've got the day off, with a silly stomach, with no sleep last night. And thought I could have a snooze now the 12 year old's gone to school...


*breathe*. Its all about the tolerance. In Gok voice.

Oh Lordy, Leopardskin. Again

This rainy morning I am fondly remembering my old leopardskin coat, that once upon a time I used to swish round London in... All before accidentally coming to live in a town where to wear something as "show-offy" put one in the ranks of the Widow Twanky Who Sits Outside Poundland Being Sharon Stone, and the lively old bat who wears her leopardskin in vinyl, with jauntily matching cap, in such a way as to remind one of Mollie Sugden as Nerys Hughes' mum. So it came that reluctantly, the acrylic jungle-fur had to be rehomed... And now leopardskin is EVERYWHERE again. Gutting... though I am planning on a range of handbags crafted out of some leopardskin velvet... far more delectable than swishing around like Widow Twanky Of The Dubious Underwear.

Aside from that, I feel a magnetic draw toward the shiny scissors of the hairdressers - something not unlike the sleek choppy look Brix Smith wore when she flew to the Outer Hebrides in search of real, uber-expensive tweed on Gok yesterday. Actually, it may not even have been yesterday - it could have been on cable, in which case when it was is anybody's guess. Can you tell I have a cold? Time-travelling telly - absolutely excellent for the state of confusion induced by one's sinuses.

Sort of inevitable that Jimi and Flavia will be on Claudia tonight - will Jimi be able to speak? He was rendered speechless with the emotion of getting voted out (or rather, not voted for enough to keep him in) last night. Proper choked, he was. How can it be that, after Peter Shilton and Paul Daniels went, the ones who can actually move are getting chucked off?  Even Gavin seems to have finally mastered the art of linking up all those stilted man-at-C&A-poses into Actual Dancing, so he could be in dangerous vote-off territory. Meanwhile, Ann (channelling the Queen Mother this week) rehashes her trademark moves - a cross between an afternoon at the Chelsea Flower Show and slow-motion moshpit action.