We're hoping we've not forgotten anyone, so if you're reading this and you donated money to the recording and you haven't received a package by, say, Monday or Tuesday, please feel free to drop me a little line. Post can be a little erratic from North London.
It's one of those hot, wet days which I despise. These are the days that leave me unable to get dry! I feel like some kind of water-based rodent.
The weather man lied to me again. On Monday, he peered straight out of the television and told me unequivocally that this week's forecast was "simple." It would be "hot and sunny every day." The forecast for the next couple of days has been downgraded to the catch-all "sunshine and showers." Why do they bother to say anything at all, I wonder? They merely toy with people who need the weather to be good for whatever reason. Brides, film makers, farmers, fishermen, summer fete organisers, people with birthdays, bin men, life guards and seaside cafe owners.
...This list could go on for some time.
I swear the forecasts used to be more accurate. Bring back Wincey Willis, and that weirdly shaped woman that my friend Ellie used to call Anorexia Rhombus-Head. Or go back even further to the time when all weather men were freaks. I actually liked it when they wore corduroy, sandals and dark-rimmed glasses. The world had order in those days. You sensed someone was presenting because they knew a thing or two about their subject, and not because they were Barbie dolls whose only skills are waving their hands at a green screen.
The same used to be true of politicians, until Blair and all those glamorous, plastic women like Barbara Follett waltzed into Parliament in 1997. I'm not saying that all pretty people are shit. Just that they're more likely to be!
Anyway, as I seem to have effortlessly steered this blog into a linguistic cul-de-sac, I should sign off and try to dry myself. Tragic, really, but there you go. I might go for a walk. Get a bit of fresh air. I swear there's condensation on my knees and lower back.