Saturday, April 23


I was packing just before the plane to visit the mother outlaw, when the phone call came to say Albert's old dear died in the night. The cellmate said "you need to talk about how you feel". I said I'm packing, I don't need to talk. Then, cutting my toenails, I filed the big toe right down to the ingrown bit. Something I've carefully avoided doing for years. Limping for Lent now, my own fault of course.

I've seen the mother outlaw five days in a row, she's being pretty brave but she's losing her rag a bit, as you would after 9 weeks in hospital without a single meal. I tell her about the outside world, but at the same time I feel guilty talking about what her daughter cooked for dinner last night.

I left the hospital with the umbrella up against the rain. Skidding on the grid at the kerb, I performed a perfect bana-skin pratfall. Feet up in the air, I shoulder charged the pavement. Unselfishly, the umbrella broke my fall, becoming mangled in the process. People came to my aid, but I was laughing, and wishing someone had filmed it.


  1. Albert? Sorry to hear about your troubles. 49 days takes her to the 11th of June. Thanks for the photie. I'll count her in every day sometime till then. I'll go to the cushion and start right now. At least I owe her for one beautiful son. Allah Akbar. Hotboy

  2. Thanks Hotters, that can only help. PS I didn't know you'd met my brother.

  3. Albert? Yeah, he's the one with the millions of girlfriends. He's probably got a sore back as well! Serve him right! Hotboy