So What Happened to The Curly Wurly?

I'm in the car today, due to it being my drive to the pub. Which goes to form, cottage pie and something nice and dark from Durham 4.0%. Very good.

L's day doesn't seem to be going so well. She tells me that if things get any tougher she'll shall have the Curly Wurly. The Curly Wurly? Where did that come from? Don’t do it girl. You’ll regret it.

I read an article that the island of Sark, the inhabitants of which will be holding its first democratic elections this year. Sark is apparently the last independent feudal state in the world and is run by a hereditary 'Seigneur'. In return for a fee of a mere £1.79 a year, which he pays to Britain, he theoretically gets to hold total power over his islanders. Not a bad deal, if you fancy being a dictator. One of his ancient legal rights as Seigneur allows him the privilege of deflowering the island's virgins if he so wishes, even if this involves sharing their beds on their wedding nights. It's a nice idea but probably unworkable. There's also no proof that he is actually been exercising this right, although that could just be because he's 79 years old.

Back home Daughter goes off to the newsagent looking for a magazine. She seems to be embarrassed at her magazine choice because she tells me I'm not allowed to blog what she went for or what she came back with instead when it wasn't in stock. If I do, I'm dead. It’s a wonder that I find anything to write about, judging by the amount of things I'm not allowed to blog. On the other hand it's also surprising that I'm still alive.

L informs me by text that she's lost the Curly Wurly. Hmmm.

Squash tonight, for the first time in ages and I'm very rusty. That's a polite way of saying I was crap. My positional play is rubbish. Unfortunately the rest seems to have done my opponent good. I lose 5-0. I console myself in the pub with a blonde from Oldershaws Brewery and a half.

Back at home, L's done me some pasta to boost my energy. She says it's for my cycling tomorrow but then she takes me to bed and proves otherwise. We also take a very posh 26-year-old whiskey to bed, that I got as freebie. It's good but not as good as L's method of burning off that pasta.