Sorry, but this will have to be quick. You see, I am enormously poplular at the moment. I have just returned from a well known DIY superstore where I had the pleasure of meeting an old and tanned Italian man with slightly too long hair who introduced himself to me in the carpark. He is definately Italian, because he looks like Luchino Visconti. He is called Fabio Corleone and he is about to catch a flight to Milan. By incredible good luck (mine, he tells me), he works in the fashion industry and he has just been seeing the buyers at John Lewis. But shit, he's got a whole load of fabulous samples of fine Italian clothing in a holdall and he cannot take it back to Milan because it will cost too much in excess baggage. He asks me, from the Recaro effect driver's seat of his classic Vauxhall Astra, if I am interesting in buying some fashionable Italian clothing at crazy prices.
Then, I get home and, you will not believe this, but a guy called "Scott" rings me to tell me he is doing a promotion in the area for a firm who "are doing an advertising campaign on Television" (Scott seemed quite excited about the idea of him being involved with products that are on television.) Scott then wanted to ask me just a couple of questions, but I am afraid I am so overwhelmed by my earlier good fortune in the Italian fashion stakes that I had to decline. Too much popularity and new friends in such a short space of time has got me wetting my new mohair trousers and peeing all over my red calf-skin loafers (as worn by Benedict XV1) with excitement.
Moment of the week. My moment of the week is hearing that young Weasel is working on a BBC comedy series - his first proper paid work in the industry. Crikey, he only graduated two weeks ago. Also, Mrs Weasel had one of those "millstone" birthdays. (Maybe I mean milestone, but she does not see it this way.)
I am so excited about the Labour leadership contest that I nearly stopped watching the magnolia emulsion dry in the hall.
For those of you who suffer from the slings and arrows of old age, I have been diagnosed as having tennis elbow in both arms. Cliff is soooo demanding on the court. (and off)
It was the Summer of Love. We sat in Strawberry Fields. A girl who called herself Rainbow Solstice Moonchild (she later reverted to Sandra when she got a job in Dolcis) fed me the fruits, and the air, redolent of strawberries and her patchouli grounded me. A tear welled in her sad brown eyes as she read Emily Dickinson. "I'ts all right, Baby Blue", I said, puffing on an Embassy. "She's dead". Peace and Love.