Lisa got a late birthday card yesterday. At least she claimed it was for her. Reading the name inside the card, it was difficult to tell. I think it looks more like bison than Lisa. Or possibly hijön (which is a traditional Scandinavian greeting) (I expect). There was a message too, but frankly that could say anything, and might not even be in English. I find Portuguese easier to follow. Personally I blame Bill Gates. If he hadn't made computers so darn popular, people would still be able to use a pen.
But that aside, I've been to the doctor this morning. The anti-anthrax pills I've been on for the past fortnight may have been successful in protecting me from the threat of biological warfare, but they've done precious little for my prostatitis. So having felt like death warmed up for the past couple of days, I headed back to the surgery to demand some answers. And to read a copy of The Kemptown Rag in the waiting room.
The upshot is that I'm now on another four-week course of antibiotics. It's a good job I don't pay for my prescriptions - I could be bankrupt by now. The doctor also gave me a large factsheet about my condition, so I left the surgery with a spring in my step... until five minutes later when I realised I'd been walking down the road clutching a large picture of a penis. To be honest though, that probably made me less conspicuous in St James's Street.
But the good news is that to cheer myself up after my medical ordeal, I headed straight to The Brighton Centre box office, where I managed to lay my hands on two of these...
Start warming up the hair straighteners, I'm going to the beard show.