Day three of cat-sitting hell, and Lisa is now accusing Timmy of licking her sponge in the bathroom. Personally I think it's an outrageous allegation. Although he does sleep in the bath and drink out of our cups at any given opportunity.

Not that Oscar's much better. I was forced downstairs for fresh water an hour after going to bed last night, after Lisa awoke to find Oscar drinking from her glass on the dressing table. We wouldn't mind, but I've personally witnessed where else he sticks his tongue, and I'm not sure it's entirely hygienic.

But on the plus side, I made it to Sainsburys yesterday and purchased a litter tray scoop. I find it more appealing that panning for gold with the tablespoon Lorraine provided.

This morning I've sucessfully transported Lisa to work. It's a journey of about five miles. So it only took about 40 minutes. That's rush hours for you. We might have to try and leave a bit earlier tomorrow. I think I underestimated how long it would take me to feed two cats and make Lisa's Laughing Cow sandwiches. I also forgot the biscuit with her cup of tea, which threw my schedule off by another minute. I'll have it sorted by the end of the week though.

On my way back along the seafront, I had the pleasure of passing the Pitch & Putt place which I came to know so well last October, and which subsequently became the name of Mirkin's local in chapter three of my (unfinished) novel, after input from one of my stalkers. (Not content with linking to my own archives and novel, I'm now linking to my comments. This is getting ridiculous).

Anyhoo, the owners have obviously since rejected my suggestion to permanently swap both the P's for B's, and have erected a new sign. Which someone has already defaced to read 'Pitch & Putta'. Which is ok I suppose, but for me it lacks the resonance of Bitch & Butt. I think I'll take a marker pen with me tomorrow.