Gah!

I get so cross, without real justification, at the Duran Duran tourists that linger outside my house. Sorry if I've said this before, but the bus stop directly in front of my kitchen window is a magnet for twenty-something foreign scum students with obviously far too much time on their hands.

I came downstairs to make my lunch at 1pm today, and when I left the kitchen having washed up etc. at 2.15 they were still there! Every five minutes one or several of them would break off from the pack and go and have a sneaky glimpse at Simon and Yasmin's spacious, well-appointed detached house (next door to my potential filleed 60s ex-council flat), stand there for 30 seconds trying not to look interested and then return to show their mates the digital snap they've taken of a view that's easily visible by, um, peering round a wall.

(apologies for the poor quality of the above photos. Dirty kitchen window + digital zoom != David Bailey)

At one point, a linen-cleaning service van pulled into the drive, under the awed gaze of the badly-dressed throng (what is it with foreign Durannies? They all seem to be gothy or slightly alternative - this is Duran Duran, for heaven's sake, not Marilyn Manson!). Their astonishment must have prevented them from figuring out that if a local artisan is delivering something to the house, someone will have to open the door. I mean, they can't be waiting for hours and hours just for the sake of proximity? Can they?

Update: it's 3pm and they're still there.

On a positive note, one of them very, very nearly got run over as she went for a daring glimpse from the *other* side of the road. Gasp! On the negative side, she didn't, and did a stupid not-getting-squished dance instead.

Next week: I go for a barbecue round Heaven 17's house.

So - who did you fancy in Grease? This deeply important philosophical query was inspired by last night's showing of "Grease - After they Were Famous" (which was a bit harsh on John Travolta, even if Grease could realistically be called the pinnacle of his career). During the programme, it became clear to me that after all these years I *still* have a crush on Frenchie, and, bizarrely, the actress, Didi Conn, still loks oh-so-cute 25 years on. Bless.

Following on from the Victorian theme of the last entry, here's a pic I completely accidentally came across on the web. Bet you can't guess what I was googling that led me to it ;)

Naturally, it'll be the cover of my next album.

I don't often do this, as my relationship with I Love Everything is an occasionally stormy one, but this thread is an absolute gem. Ta Tom!

So. How come when I was little we were told to sit far back from the TV set or I'd ruin my eyes, but nowadays we sit 18 inches away from a monitor with no ill effects? No ill effects my arse - I always get a blurry, filmy feeling as the day draws on, and that's nothing compared to what it's doing to my back...

Off to see Bowling for Columbine tonight. I am excited, but nervous, because I have a feeling it might make me quite angry. I am convinced that anger is the main cause of death in the Western hemisphere - in the olden days apoplexy was even an accepted cause of death, and while I'm not suggesting I might expire on the spot, I'm sure it'll take a good few minutes off my life. Poor internal organs!

I'm nervous because I don't *want* to be angry with America. I do it too often as it is, even though I have an appetite for Americana that tallies with the average US appetite for nachos. I even want to live there at some point. I hope I do.

Nothing to say really, just an observation.

I just popped out to get the paper, and post a letter. As I left the house I saw the most astonishing bank of cloud approaching from the west, with sheets of rain visible in the distance. It was one of those moments when I realise why I bought a digital camera, as I've never seen such a finely detailed, browny-grey mass of cloud as this. Of course, I didn't have my camera with me, so I'll just have to compare it to the dust trails that occult star systems and drape across the arms of spiral galaxies.

I decided not to post my letter - it would have required walking another 100 yards, and the weather was so threatening I decided against it. I made it home okay, and as I went in through the front door, I felt smething on my back foot. Within a split second, literally, of me going inside, torrential hail had started to fall. Yuck.

So, what nastiness is going to rebalance my karma this afternoon, then?

(p.s. if you like the pretty space pictures, add this site to your favourites. It's totally worth it.)

There is only so much smugness a boy can express in his weblog, so please enjoy this picture. We certainly shall at next week's pub quiz.

Incidentally, the previous entry was supposed to look like a stigmatum. But I was so subtle, and obv none of you think I'm likely to be the second coming. Boo to you all.

I have just spent a tinily happy 3 minutes extracting basil seeds from some of the last remaining seed pods (they're not really pods, but I can't think of a better word) of my basil plant. I'm sad my plant is dying now - it's an annual, so that's it - but pleased to have collected over 100 little hard black seeds which I can plant at some unspecified time next spring and hope they grow into lovely, big, strong basil plants.

in January or so, I bought several pots of supermarket basil to make a pesto. I used it all up, apart from 4 tiny, runty stems which weren't even worth bothering with. So I deceided to leave them on my windowsill and see what would happen. Somehow, they grew! And grew, and grew, and grew - they ended up over two foot high and with TRUNKS. The gave me loads of leaves for my Italian dishes, and as much pleasure as I could get without actually spawning.

And now the cycle of life is complteing itself. I shall be sad to see an empty space on top of my coffee maker. But excited at the thought of new life, and all thanks to me!

Good news! Stevie is onto solids!

(the top shelf is stil mine, and the martini glasses remain. But he is weaned!)

In the corridor that leads to the stairs to my flat there is what can only be described as a slug graveyard. I've been baffled as to why the nasty creatures continue to slither through this portal, only to make it half way and shrivel up. Or not shrivel up, in the case of the little bastard who adhered to the sole of my shell-toe today. Ick!

When I lived in Leamington Spa, the local slugs used my house as a conduit from one obviously fantastic slug party to another. Stepping on a big, live, yellow one in bare feet is not an experience I want to go through again.

Another night, another pub quiz. Is it cruel to name your team solely on the embarrassment level the quizmaster will face when reading it out? If so, we beg forgiveness. It actually wasn't too smutty, but he did have the grace to sound embarrassed. Hee.

Other than that, my return to Eng-er-land has been as uneventful as could be. 13 hours sleep was the higlight of my day (pre-quiz), though I did realise I am now officially (web-) published. Problem is, they expect me to write another column. Do I look like I'm *made* of words?

Tomorrow is another day, filled with tiresome hours that need to be used up. I think it'll also be a day filled with writing, cos if I want to be a writer who writes well, I have to write. And find a thesaurus.

Toodle-oo!

I've just come back from the States. I've got loads to blog about, probably. But to kick off, for Europeans only, here's something that made me snigger. It's pretty much the same as a Bounty.