talking heads

Sitting in the back of a cab twixt Paddington and Kings Cross because Circle Line is kaput. Another jumper. Looking forward to three hours standing because I've missed the train I should have caught.

I'll be late home but with any luck it might get me out of the task of thinking up names for 100+ cuddly toys. Yes, tomorrow it's the village gala and I'm manning the Teddy Tombola. I can't begin to tell you how life affirming an experience that is.

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Bloody Hell! I've spent the first hour of the journey in a bloody luggage rack. The train is packed and I've had to wait until Peterborough for a seat. I feel like I've just flopped out of a George Formby grill after cuddling Mr and Mrs Samsonite.

So I'm now listening to The Byrds 'Sweetheart of the Rodeo' trying to bump myself into somethinq resembling a sunny weekend vibe.

Now. What are my chances of picking up an eye patch and cutlass at Toys'r'us when I get off the Duke of Edinburgh (it's the name of the engine, honest)? Why the eye patch and sword? Didn't I mention that tomorrows gala is fancy dress? Oh yes. I'm going as an astronaut.

Apparently I've got to repair a big hole in the back lawn tomorrow as well. Beckham's penalty landed in it yesterday.

Blimey, Alan Bennett's just wandered past with a butty. Good to see he travels Standard. Mind you, I bet he didn't do the first hour sat in an ash-tray.