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Thursday, February 15, 2007

The Barley MowI do love the sense of humour of my local pub. Not that I've ever been in it, obviously (I prefer to stay at home with a can of Tizer), but I often walk past the sign outside, which changes on a frequent basis, and regularly makes me laugh. This is my favourite since they advertised their weekly pub quiz with the words "It's got a picture round and everything!".

But changing the subject, if there's one thing guaranteed to make Valentine's Day a little bit special, it's getting a phone call out of the blue at midday from a female admirer asking me out on a hot date that very afternoon while Lisa's busy at work. Naturally I said yes, and within two hours I was suited, booted, and picking up the woman of my dreams in the car of my nightmares (it's been letting in the rain lately, and smells of mildew). Of course, in an ideal world, the lady in question wouldn't have been 73 and Lisa's mother, but on the bright side I got to spend the afternoon at Hove dog track.

I did feel slightly guilty that I was celebrating Valentine's Day with another woman (although she offered to buy me chips, which helped ease the pain), especially when I looked through the racing form and spotted a dog called Lookoutforlisa, but over all, I felt I was doing Lisa a favour by keeping her mother amused and giving her the chance to win a bit of inheritance money. Or, as it turned out, lose her pension. But hey, there's nothing wrong with a bit of poverty.

In other developments, the new issue of The Kemptown Rag is out today (24 hours ahead of schedule, and available to download online - pick up your copy now), and I'm pleased to say they've printed my article. The good news is they've given it prime billing on page 2, and they've spelt my name right. The bad news is they seem to have moved the last three paragraphs to page 7 so they can fit in an advert for The Pro Musica Chamber Choir. Which is a bit of a liberty. If I'm going to have news of Lisa's smear test delivered to 6,000 homes, I want it on the inside cover, dammit.