I Could Tell You, But Then I'd Have To Kill You

Thursday, 18th September

Mr Moore and I went to supper with our mate Gary, the England physio.  He told us loads of great stories, which I am sadly unable to divulge, but if he ever needs his autobiography ghosted, I'd love to be first in the queue.

We got back to Battersea and sat, shivering, under the sadly inadequate heating lights in the smoking garden.  The couple on the other half of our table announced their imminent departure.  They had to throw a cover over the parrot.  I had visions of a small green bipedal creature, waddling about with its vision obscured by a tea towel.  Apparently, if you don't, they wander around all night like a Duracell bunny on coke, swearing, and getting the munchies.  'Better go home,' I said, 'before it gets parrotlytic.'  On a roll, I followed this up with - 'At least if you get a hangover, you can't take aspirin - because the parrots-etamol.'  I have never seen anyone vacate a table quite so fast.

Friday, 19th September

We all went to see Dick tonight.  He looked surprisingly well, given the recent surgery.  Then back to Battersea, for tapas, and a visit from American Auntie Michelle.  The children are always delighted to see her, and we had lots of catching up to do since the wedding.

Saturday, 20th September

I took Xanthe to Stagewise this morning, and returned to the excitement of a fire on Bullen Street.  I was told to pull over by the police, and parked up to find the police winding cordon tape around it.  I returned to it a couple of hours later, and the copper on the cordon told me to turn the car round, and drive the wrong way down a one way street.  I questioned the sanity of this.  'Look Love,' he said, 'I've just told you to do something blatantly illegal, so go ahead.'  He was clearly enjoying himself.  I felt quite the VIP as he held up the tape for me to drive under.