I caught the end of GMTV this morning, and happened to see Lorraine Kelly reporting on her weekend away in New York where she was running in yesterday's marathon. So having spent the last few days cat-sitting because Lisa's friend Lorraine had gone to New York for the weekend, I'd just like to make it clear that it's not that Lorraine. Our Lorraine would never run a marathon.

Anyhoo, said cat-sitting is now over, and Timmy did manage to get down from the high window. He opted for an advanced plummetting technique, which basically involved falling head-first onto a wicker chair below and nearly knocking over a glass coffee table. Sadly he wasn't injured. But having witnessed his dive of death, Lisa and I headed across town to pick up her mother for a trip to Hove dog track. Unfortunately, having made it along the seafront as far as the pier, dodging the classic cars from the London to Brighton Veteran Car Run, we found ourselves being stopped by police who were holding up traffic for the funeral procession of one Phil Starr.

Having lived in Brighton all her life, Lisa naturally looked blank and said "Who?", but fortunately her mother, who has her fingers in many local pies, was able to fill me in. Apparently he was a local drag queen. Although having sat in a traffic jam and watched a funeral procession consisting of four white horses with plumes, a coffin in a glass coach, half a dozen cadillacs and limos, and about three hundred people, I'd guessed he wasn't a plumber. According to today's Argus, the funeral was attended by both June Brown and Hilda Braid - or Dot Cotton & Nana Moon if you prefer. Sadly Shane Richie couldn't make it. But apparently "June Brown recalled the last time she saw Phil and dropped him off at Victoria station. The pair had been working on a gay sitcom for the BBC written by Matthew Westwood who, she said, thought Phil was a genius".

So it's a sad day for comedy. Phil's untimely death has robbed us of a gay sitcom starring Dot Cotton and a septagenarian drag queen.

It also robbed us of the chance to get to the greyhound track on time, which frankly was more of a loss. But I made up for lost time by picking a couple of losers, and then getting mixed up at the counter and backing the wrong dog. Lisa's Mum had requested a reverse forecast on numbers 2 and 5. So with great confidence I put her money on 2 and 6. I naturally felt awful when I realised my mistake, but felt slightly better two minutes later when 2 and 6 romped home and won me £13. Hey, it was my mistake, so I had to take the consequences. Which in this case was a slap up meal for three at McDonalds. It's no wonder my diet's going so badly.