Sunday morning is a time when we survey the damage left by late night revellers. A womans shoe is on the pavement, a sure sign that Cinderella went to the ball and decided that Prince Charming wasn't charming enough. Not really suprising since he and his mates were drunk, engaging in a singing competition in which random lyrics are put to random melodies and may the loudest voice win. Every week this goes on. Where's Simon Cowell when you need him?

At any rate, Cinderella was probably on a girls night out and was too drunk to care, whooping and screaming every time she blindly bumped into something. But that was last night. Her taxi is now a pumpkin again, and the man who headbutts taxi's has gone home to sleep off his bruises.

A key left on my front wall? Not mine, and I must admit I do feel a little smug that other people can lock themselves out of their homes too. Not that I ever do that of course. The fact that I'm on first name terms with my local locksmith is entirely co-incidental. He's an ex-RAF chap, a man for whom manning a machinegun in a helicopter window was not the career he had originally envisaged, and to be honest, you get the impression he thinks that idiots who lock themselves out of their own homes deserve to be gunned down by passing RAF helicopters. What saves me from certain doom of course is that I pay him to get in. And also that as a civilian the RAF are none too keen to let him man machineguns anymore. Phew.

Talking of RAF helicopters, a couple of years ago I was hiking along the Thames Pathway one sunday. The weather wasn't particularly good, the fishermen along the banks were miserable and unwilling to let me by, and the path itself bore an uncanny resemblance to no mans land. There I was, in the middle of a grassy field, when an RAF helicopter burst into view at tree top height, obviously following the river. I reached for my camera, hoping for a close up all action photo, and immediately, the 'copter banked hard right and performed an extraordinary evasive manoever. Very impressed lads. It seems I now own the only Ground to Air Camera that registers on RAF threat displays.

Near the top of the hill I turn off the main road and pass by the Rushey Platt Blind Association building, whose car park entrance is being repaired. One does wonder, eh?

Visit of the Week

AD decides to let me see the warehouse where I'll be working. Security is busy sleeping in the gatehouse, jerking upright as we toot our horn driving by. I think he needs a another pet rat to keep him company. Turns out our new home is a nice place. Clean, tidy, not like the grubby Shed or the cavernous dark underworld of the Hangar. Very busy place too, with stuff lying everywhere. So... we ask in all innocence, where exactly is the floor space allocated to our use? Huh? For a moment he blinked, his jaw hanging open. What we have here is a failure to communicate...