Furry teeth.

It's not very nice, waking up to dog shit. This morning I walked downstairs and nearly slipped on a big fat shit by the sofa. Well, it's confirmed my theory that morning's are weird- that getting up after a certain time is necessary, because all the morning's mishaps are cleared up and not spoken of. That could happen every day at 9am and I had never known. Or the sky could be green between 7 and 8 in July, it would be normal to everyone else but I'd never know. Strange things happen, not after dark but just after sunrise.

I'm at a stage where I consider getting dressed before the afternoon and bothering with breakfast instead of going straight to lunch, as worthy of a gold star sticker. Not today though, as I sit in Winnie the Poo pjs eating a vegetable tart. Last night's stoned sofa-hopping has made me more aware of the extent of my laziness. A three minute walk felt like a marathon on Nytol and the stairs were my failed Everest hike. Consequently, I woke up in a Drunkymunky hoody, face down on the sofa with furry teeth, as my mum drew the curtains to a green sky and held her nose.

I can't get over how good the stuff in Lush smells. All I want to do is eat it, and it's even more appealing because I know I shouldn't. I think the salesman could sense my enthusiasm. He looked like a wizard, a bubble wizard. He followed us about crumbling balt salts into warm water, pouring the foam between two jugs and saying 'See, this is why we call them Hollywood style bubbles'. I thought he was going to ask me to kiss him after he applied their new balm and puckered his lips. But my Lush desires were not to be fulfilled by this magical bath god, I just had to lick a tester of 'Honey I Washed the Kids'. I had hoped desperately for vanilla and unfortunately, got Vanish.

*

I've decided that I cannot stand Come Dine With Me. I want to like it but I can't, and it's taken me a while to realise that. The contestants are either completely annoying or thick, usually with some incomprehensible regional accent or dirty stripper past. No food (even if it isn't out of a can like usual) looks good on Wilkos pattern plate sets. Also, to me it's a strange concept that they get to look round the host's house- where do they draw the line? Laundry baskets, bottom drawers? From what I can gather about dinner parties, and even the lesser civilised ones I've attended, it would not be kosher to take your margarita up to the bedroom and pull back the sheets.

There has been no choice but revert back to this kind of entertainment when the turn in weather again prevents anything in England from being fun (unless it involves indoor drinking). This is not to say, however that the sun promotes a more productive attitude. People want to stay in with the curtains drawn when it rains, but similarly siesta and loll around in the garden when it's sunny. This begs the question, are we always just looking for an excuse to do nothing?

Maybe it's just me.

The times are not a-changin'.

It's so frustrating not to be able to use a new thing. I can't stop thinking about my new orange bike. I bought it, rode and fell off it one day then had to leave it. It's like getting a new ipod and not being able to load music onto- but that's happened too. I have the feeling with this bike like I used to with new dolls or school shoes with a heel, you love them so much you want to sleep next to them.

Speaking of sleeping next to something and not using it, since when did erectile disfunction adverts make it to TV? The man in the advert is wearing pyjamas. Now either that is suppossed to suggest that sexual intercourse is about to happen, 'get excited everyone, I've got my pinstriped ones on!' or this state is shown as something to avoid, 'do you really want to end up as a sad pyjamaed bastard too?'

The worst thing is, now you have to call in! A hotline for the Soft Penis Crew, how humilating. If I was a guy and had this problem, I'd rather revert back to rooting through my Junk Mail folder and doing things the impersonal way. Or I'd probably tell my wife to stop wearing that fucking beige nighty, as is suggested in the advert.


You know she shouldn't have spent 180 quid on a day when your mum says "I never thought I'd be rather be standing in the queue for the porta-loos than watching Bob Dylan" before descending to a tent which looks like a deflated balloon and getting into her beige nightie. It's even worse when you agree bed's the best option because the Carlsberg's turned flat and warm (after making it last half the time it takes to get it), and the fact they're playing Foo Fighters in the break between acts is a saving grace.

First English festival in two years, and the times really are not a-changin'.