All at Sea

Well, you yachtsmen, how corny can you be, calling your jolly newspaper All At Sea? There was Jon, resplendent in his cowboy shirt, and his trusty bro Pete (which cowboy looked more swanky?), celebrating his birthday at Shoreham Yachting Club. Luckily there were no spooky tanned characters in blue denim yachting caps with curved tobacco-pipes, otherwise we would have scarpered back to London toot sweet. I talked myself hoarse, even though there's no point talking when you do a blog because everybody seems to know everything already. But it was so touching- a friend of Pete's told me she still sings Chefs songs almost every day, and she sang Sweetie to me. Aah!
And today, well I was last night's home-driver, fuelled by red and black wine gums (no other colours please) and although my carful was a little drunk, they were interesting rather than boring and kept me awake with their verbal ramblings, in the fog and drizzle as I drove home too fast. Today has been Housework, half a bottle of champagne, scrubbing the floor, cleaning out the fishtank (stings the hands but I will cry when the carrotfish dies, he who looks at me with his rogueish black beady eyes). Does the carpet manufacture one pence pieces? Why are they there? Could it not be the 2 quid ones next time, please God?
O the cruelty of roaring around with the brutal Dyson when a delicate little song is whispering itself into your ear!