I tried to photograph the black swan in Reading but it didn't want to know: it turned its back on me and even asking its white pals to send it over didn't work.
The breakfast in the hotel cost a horrifying £15.95. Just across the road, a stuffed cafe was selling breakfast for £3.51.
Crazy prices in every way.
We drove to Brighton, the running gags running away with us: Chris's pride in parsimony, Martin's black curly wig, a gift from June, scaring the yummy mummies on the phone in their Minis, and John and Kate's dinner lady friend who stuttered for ages trying to say 'Chipolatas' before eventually settling on 'Those little sausages'.
The Haunt in Brighton was our last destination. Offsprog One played there with her band Royal Limp; at first sight it seemed scruffy and dead but as the band sound-checked, the sound engineer brought it to life because he took such care over what he was doing. We'd eaten chips on the beach; the town was packed with lobster-coloured tourists.
What a lovely last gig. Peter and Jonathan and Jill, Steph and Sara and lots of Daintees mates came down. Last time for the punky skiffle set, then I went up to the closed-off balcony and danced my socks off to 'I Can See'; Sara, who is a pal from years ago, came up too and we watched from above.
The encore was 'Rain', sung by the whole audience; the load-up for the last time, hugs to Mike and June, back in the bus for the last time and home to sleep it all off.
Marking today-fifty essays to get through this week.