There's a strange singing noise...

...coming from the bathroom "...ow don the whiney windy mo, sweet [gurgle...gurgle...spit...hawk...splash] A-TWO -A-FREE-FOUR...EEEFCLIFFF - IZ ME IZ KAFF-FEEE OH CUM OME OH-HO-HO-HO-HO LEAPIN' OUDDA YOUR WINDAH...HO-HO-HO..." I wish Penny Smith wouldn't just pop in like that and use my shower without so much as a by your leave. Oh, don't get me wrong, she's a canny enough neighbour, I suppose - couldn't be more obliging if ever I run out of sugar or need an Ordnance Survey map of the Peak District to borrow for one of my infamous pub crawls disguised as walking weekends. She has the whole collection, apart from the Solent/Isle of Wight map, of course, which I rather embarrassingly mislaid when I borrowed it from her a couple of months ago. Christ only knows why I took that with me to the Cairngorms, but there you go - mental note to self "buy Penny a replacement OS map of the Solent/Isle of Wight...and get in some more Imperial Leather"...

Yes, you couldn't wish for a better next door neighbour really. She even volunteered to give me hand relief the other day. Nice wrist action she has too - although I do wish she'd take the marigolds off in future. The chaffing has not been pleasant. Still, I've had worse from Garraway. She really wants to get those horny palms looked at instead of whipping her thrupennies out for any old stray livestock in need of a quick suckle. Still, I suppose it all works out in the end - I did proof read Penny's latest book for her after all. My goodness, you'd think that even for a job like being a presenter on GMTV there would be some need for basic literacy, wouldn't you? But no, there's scant evidence of any in Penny's - and I hesitate to use the word to describe a rambling bundle of unintelligable squiggles scribbled on the backs of envelopes and held in some semblance of order by three overstretched elastic bands - manuscript.

"wot you jus done was owt off this werld, Crispian", sied ower heroin as he messaged her pendyless brests wiv his hugh, comanding hans." "Urgh, urgh, urgh" replide Crispain as he workd away at the palzeed mass beneaf him liek a frenzeed babbon wiv a personige the siez of Llandudno"....

It's a history of women in Television, apparently. My goodness, I'd have expected a little better from Valerie Singleton, wouldn't you?

Right, I'm off to Fine Fare to stock up on soap-on-a-rope before she starts murdering "The Man With the Child in his Eyes"...


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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