Gullible

Popped round to Dad's this afternoon. For a man so well travelled he can be surprisingly small minded, referring to my brief interlude with Lena as nothing more than 'a chat'. He obviously cannot understand the obvious nuances in her body language, I tried to describe the way she giggled softly behind a veil of soft blonde hair. I tried to tell him about how she tripped over the French language with her broad Lancashire accent and flat vowels but it was to no avail.
Dad was far more interested in my impending court case with Duncan Blackhorn. Duncan has been formally charged with fraud after he impersonated Simone Loving and managed to shoe horn over five hundred pounds from my bank account. Yes I know I willingly paid it into his account but had I known I was paying the money to an overweight man mountain in a fancy shirt and not a scantily clad young lovely I would have ceased payment immediately. In fact I would not have paid him at all. Its all a mess and I'm rather nervous about giving evidence as I fear my somewhat lifeless love life may be aired for all in the court room to hear. My solicitor is eager to paint me as a desperate, gullible figure of loneliness with only his PC for company. And I fear that is what I am.

Lena

Threw myself into French greetings and introductions with as much gusto as I could muster this afternoon. The combination of pitiful weather, a lacklustre love life and sorry social calender has me gripped by the ghoulies in a pit of dispair. Nevertheless I trudged along to my language class with beefcake brain Shaun, a man who is yet to master the English language, let alone French. After a quick fire round of noun revision the tutor divided the class into pairs for conversation practise. Thankfully she paired me with a lovely lady by the name of Lena, who blushed every time she stumbled over her words. I presume Lena is a highly intelligent woman as she is studying for a Phd in Molecular Biology but for some reason she was very embarrassed by her clunky turns of French phrases. I took this to be a signal that she fancied me and at the end of the class gave her my landline, mobile number and email address and asked that she contact me if she fancied meeting up to practise in our spare time. She took the paper, thanked me and vanished into the night (well into a throng of Chinese students). I hope she calls.

Indoor Pyrotechnics

I spent last Guy Fawkes night with Ray at Portland Hospital Radio. We spent the evening on air and unable to leave the studio during Requests Hour we created our own display of indoor pyrotechnics. I brought indoor sparklers and Ray fetched a selection of indoor fireworks. Unfortunately half of them smouldered like foul smelling jos sticks and the other half failed to work. The 'Traffic Light Fountain' was the most impressive, a four inch cone which when lit turned from red, to amber and finally - you guessed it! - green, before it disolved into something that resembled cat pooh. It all turned truly awful when Ray pulled out a packet of fun snaps, little white wrappers which when thrown make a 'snap' sound. Ray tested one, no snap. He tested another and another, still no sound. Just as I was about to go back on air the reality hit me, they weren't fun snaps. Ray had been hurling stink bombs about the studio! It smelt like the bowels of hell, even a can of cheap deodrant sprayed liberally about the studio could offer no reprieve. I felt nauseous but Ray just ran out laughing. I am hoping this year will be different.