I've waited with more than Dr Frankenfurter's anticipation for this week to end. And here it is.............at an end. Finally.

I'm away to the land of lyrical poets, madness and the marvellous word "Feck". Will I discover my Craggy Island? Will the chips taste better in the rain? Can I stop myself dancing the jig (hands glued by my sides). Incidentally who (in the darkest depths of despair, depravity, delusion and any other word beginning with "d") would want to glue themselves to Moron Frown? Father Dougal Maguire perhaps?

I'm so excited I have Xmas Eve syndrome. If I pretend to be asleep can I catch a peek at Father Xmas? If I pretend to be asleep will the morning arrive any faster? Yes if I have to catch a flight from Stansted at 6.30am. I'll have to leave here at 3.00am

Yikes is that the time?

It's out..............a cry so sharp, a wail so thin, it could strip wallpaper.

A sash window open.........admitting a draft as biting as Colmans bright, yellow mustard.

A loss unbearable.

A dream with the beauty of dawn-breaking relief and certainty

It's gone.

For now........

Until the physical scars surface on hands that belong to a young boy

Ode to Moron Frown......et al, get real

Oh dear what can the matter be?
Poor old Heathcliffe locked in the lavatory
He's been there from Monday through Saturday
Nobody said that they care.

Oh dear what can the matter be?
The G8 summit gorging on canapes
They'll bang on from Monday through Saturday
Nobody said life was fair

Oh dear what can the matter be?
Summer's sun, is weaker than fairy pee
Rain incessantly Monday through Saturday
Wellies will get all the wear

Turned out shite again. For the second consecutive year, summer footwear in this country belongs in one of two categories:

Welly or Flip-flop?

Rubber or plastic?

Black or green?

Wellies for me as I really can't stand that post between my toes. So trench foot then, for the rest of the season. I refuse to use the word "summer".

I wish to make a complaint.

I'm going through a very strange phase. I've been baking bread!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously.

The weather was a fickle fellow yesterday so I asked myself what would Jesus do? He might consider turning rain water into fuel or lay waste to all parking meters and parking charges. He may even obliterate the bilge that calls itself entertainment on Channel 4, "Love thy Big Brother". But the easiest of tasks one supposes is breadmaking. It's practical, has a heavenly smell and is delightful wrapped around bacon, so I blew the dust off the machine and got to work. It wasn't very good at all. Was that because elbow grease was sadly lacking. I did remember to use vegetable oil. And naturally I wouldn't dream of attempting to convert it into bio-fuel. The loaf might qualify for congestion charging then. The bigger the loaf, the higher the tariff. Do I need to knead manually I wonder? Is it cheating using a machine?

Not to be deterred, I had another go today and it is much better. This time I used granary malted flour. I think it will take a couple of practice runs before I get it right, so there happens to be a lot of bricks about the house that look slightly like loaves. Five to be exact.

Now where did I put my fishing rod?

In space no one can hear you scream, well off-shore, time wasters need not apply

Pinch me, I hope I'm dreaming......

"Police sniffer dogs will have to wear bootees when searching the homes of Muslims so as not to cause offence"

This is cruelty to animals surely. Does the society that attempts to prevent such cruelty know about this? And are we still allowed to use the word "cruelty". It's a very harsh word in these Caractacus Potts times. Maybe these sniffer dogs will just be mildly offended by having to dress up like pantomime, seaside, sideshow sniffers.

What next? Burqas for female sniffer dogs?

RAFA.........................

I love you!

Surely it's like playing yourself? Playing yourself NOT playing with yourself. For there is a difference.

I've invested all afternoon in this gargantuan final, I can't leave the lads now. Tennis as taught as the strings on their respective racquets. And sporting professionalism as pure as a point deliberated by hawk-eye.

Rafa, don't break my heart.

20h59 and so play continues.........it's now becoming horrific to watch. Rather like a Stephen King twisted-tennis match. Are both players still human?

Entering into a sort of relaxed and informal contract with sleep now would be very welcome. Certainly as I look outside it is only my half-face highlighted by the computer screen reflected through the window glass. The night is as black as the devil's boot polish and quieter than a grave-robber's tool belt.

The midnight sighs.....