Planet Mad

Fatso is the proud owner of one of those plastic hamster balls, and he's quite adept at zooming round my flat in it. However, he's also becoming adept at escaping from it. There is little worse than being in the middle of lovely phone coversation and suddenly having to shout, "Fatso! Stop!" and scrabble round on the floor trying to reach beind the sofa (especially mindful of the way in which Fatso #1 met his nasty end).

Actually, with hindsight, the above paragraph is bobbins. There are many things worse than having phonus interruptus, such as realising that you've put your pants on the top of your trousers, or that you've forgotten to to put on your trousers full stop, but on a Tuesday-night-in scale of good to bad, it's worse than removing red wine stains from a light-ish coloured carpet (also on tonight's agenda) and getting stitch from eating too many biscuits (I've already done this one today).

Regardless of how bad it is, there's one thing that I now know for certain: the damn beastie's going to be sellotaped in from now on!