Yet more Love and War

Well! Where to start? Apparently it's supposed to be good when people get so excited about your articles that they throw bombs at the news offices. That at least is what Editor Fran told me while she was boarding up her windows!

And have I been in the thick of it! All three Letters this month complain about me. I'm rabid and feral and prurient and other words I don't know the meaning of. I must be getting something right!

Except that I'm not. Apparently I got it wrong again!. One love triangle - definitely yes. Even Agonising Ali-blob seems to have spotted that one. Which is amazing because it means she's taken her eyes off her own sports modelling career long enough to notice someone else.

All three of that triangle are in print this week talking about licking their lollies on the freshly laid grass and telling everyone else to mind their own beeswax (do you use beeswax in painting - something from junior school art class is knocking around my pretty little head saying you do).

However, I can reveal (but possibly not as much as some people have been revealing this week - see below) that the woman I saw with Ald Corny in Paddington was not the woman who has admitted to being shacked up with the old goat-boy. In fact I didn't link So-sue-me Arks-her-back-right to Corny at all! So all her bluster about being 'outed' is a bit of an overreaction you might say. That's a bit embarrassing for her now isn't it? Should have kept schtum!

However, that does mean there must be at least four in this love-triangle. And before you say "love-square" I thought of that and prefer "love-parallelogram" or possibly "love-pyramid." Question for the horny Corny: how many nights are there each week, Lothario, and do you take sundays off?

Note I've not told you who the mystery lady is (Susie-pants and Auntie Doreen (not to mention Aunt "Alison" Morrow - ha ha!) will now presumably both want to know who the woman with the interest in literature is. Clue: she's been arranging a party this week.)

Finally, in a different section of society, I have observed that there is more than just a battle of the bands going on in the pubs and (single) nightspot of Tilebury. In fact there's been a battle of the wandering hands and not a little bit of nudity and stolen clothing. Not sure yet, but by the pricking of my thumbs I sense romantic tension in the air. Just when Beautiful Jimmy-boy Keegen's about to head off round the country for the Big Tour. Farewell kisses?

Runners and Riders

And we've got to have a section on the big power struggle. After all this may be my last column if Auntie Prehis-Doreen has her way (have no doubt about that - her manifesto is pretty clear). And it's not looking good kids! I've been adding up the electors on both sides and the side of light and truth is looking distinctly thinner than the forces of darkness and boredom. I hear the Horoscopes this month have predicted how we will each come down and it is numerically bad.

Lobby your local elector. Knobble Doreen. Tie Mrs Corkerham to the ducking stool (after all, she knows about ducks) so she can't turn up at the party. Do something!

You know I'll be on Fran's side. Cheering her to the rafters. But Mrs Cork will cancel out my vote and who knows about the rest.

Come on all of you - Fran's been a good editor - stand with her. Even Alia - look at least I used your proper name - just this once Ali, you've got to agree with me. Do you really think Aunty D is going to let you carry on writing the way you want to? Just look at her manifesto!

Desperate times - woman the barricades!!! [Thank you Fiona, but everyone must vote according to how they believe. I will abide by the democratic decision. Ed]

Pilates

They don't hurt so much after a few sessions. Do come.

Snakes

I mentioned them before. Apparently they do hurt. Someone found a rabbit sucked dry with a look of abject terror on its bunny-face. And someone else found a snake-skin lying untidily on the broken cobbles in the market-square.

This is getting serious. No doubt babies will be stolen from their cots and either eaten or raised like Tarzan in the Quantocks by a slithery brethren of fugitive cobras.

Love you all.