(Day 1 is here and Day 2 is here.)

"But Mike, this is impossible! Our ears hurt! We know you've got a new product range to promote, but why must you torture us so?"

Oh, stop snivelling like that. You'll get nothing for free in this life. So get those headphones back on, and knuckle yourselves down for round three of the quiz that everybody gave up on two days ago everybody is thoroughly enjoying, or else there'll be trouble. Big trouble. Do I make myself clear?

Here are today's four middle bits, to be matched up with the right intros. Right-click on the track listing to download.

justin timberlake - cry me a river (dirty vegas vocal mix)
angie stone - wish i didn't miss you (hex hector & max quayle mixshow)
layo & bushwacka! - love story (vs finally)
daniel bedingfield - if you're not the one (remix)

By the way - it has now been confirmed that the Troubled Diva product range will definitely be released on Monday.

Update: MP3 now deleted.

God, white sheep can be boring little prisses at times, can't they?

Cute tune. One of my late grandmother's old 78s. I'll stick it in the Curiosity Box one of these days.

(Day 1 is here.)

Yes! It's Day 2 of the Fun Quiz that everybody is doing!

Or rather, they would be doing it if only:
a) they understood the instructions.
b) the quiz wasn't so completely and utterly impossible.
c) the supplied MP3 of 20 minimal drum tracks wasn't enough to drive them right round the twist after just one listen.

But I live in hope. So here - as plucked from yesterday's comments box - is a condensed recap of the rules.Today's 4 middle bits are as follows (right-click on the track listing to download):

1. dj sneak featuring bear who? - fix my sink (original club mix)
2. the streets - weak become heroes (ashley beedle's lovebug vocal)
3. faithless featuring dido - one step too far (rollo & sister bliss mix)
4. sugababes - stronger (almighty mix)

As before, each one of the four is ascending beats-per-minute order, i.e. slowest first, fastest last. As the 20 intros are also in ascending beats-per-minute order, this should make things slightly easier.

The DJ Sneak track should be a comparative doddle. (I said comparative). Even if you only get one correct answer, then you should be able to get that one. And frankly, I have a strong suspicion that One Point might be all you need to win this competition.

Happy beat-matching, everyone!

Update: MP3 now deleted.

You see the posting below, titled If wishes were horses? The one about genies and magic lanterns and wishes?

Well, I was having quite a lot trouble coming up with a suitable title for it. Eventually, I gave up and plumped for If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Because it was a well known saying using the word "wishes", basically. But not a terribly good fit. Bit of a lame title, in fact. Best I could come up with, though.

A few minutes later, on my way to lunch, the blessed Saint Isidore (patron saint of the Internet) decided to lob some divine providence my way, in the shape of an Interesting And Poignant Incident involving a beggar. Meaning that I could now split the previously meaningless phrase over two consecutive postings.

(1) "If wishes were horses..." - a piece about wishes.
(2) "...beggars would ride. - a piece about beggars.

Wow. How slick and conceptual does that make me look? Huh?

Praise be to Saint Isidore, then. Why, it's almost enough to make you a Believer.

This lunchtime, about half an hour ago. I'm waiting to use the right hand cash machine, just behind a Young Person. One of his mates is using the left hand cash machine. Behind us, three other Young People are hanging around, waiting for them to finish. Much lively banter and carefree laughter is flowing back and forth between the group.

Sitting on the pavement between the two cash machines is a fair-haired woman in her mid-twenties, with a blanket arranged over her legs. She is looking up at the group and beaming at them, like someone at a drinks party who is hovering on the edge of a conversation in the hope of being included.

Something about this strategy annoys me instantly. It seems both falsely ingratiating - designed merely to elicit cash - and utterly futile. As if these people are going to include her in their banter! I turn my head away to the right, and stare into the middle distance.

Come on, Mike. You're hardly being fair. What would you rather see? Would you rather she just sat there, head downcast, assuming a suitably downtrodden, meekly supplicating air for you? Would that be the "correct" way for beggars to behave, then?

"Excuse me? It's free?"

What? I turn my head back. The Young Person in front of me has vanished, and I realise I have been dumbly standing in front of the cash machine with my mouth hanging half open. The beggar woman is looking up at me and smiling.

"You were miles away there."

"I was, wasn't I? I was on another planet..." I fumble quickly for my Switch card.

"What were you thinking about?"

I was thinking about you. God, I can't say that. Come on, answer her.

"Oh nothing much. Stupid stuff, really." God, that sounds dismissive. She was only being nice.

I take my 50 quid, fumble for change, press two 20ps and a 10p into her hand without making eye contact, and hurry off to the deli.

Anna's list of things I wish I'd known at 6 has reminded me of something which used to exercise my brain a great deal when I was about six years old. Namely: if I ever found a magic lantern, and rubbed it so that a genie came out and offered me three wishes, what exactly would I wish for?

I used to think about this a lot. Just in case it ever happened. Because I'd need to be good and ready. Wouldn't want to waste my precious wishes on anything stupid.

(I was well aware of this danger, having read rather a lot of stories in which silly, greedy children abused their wishes and ended up getting their karmic just desserts. Their desperate, panic-stricken third wish, blurted out in the heat of the moment, always seemed to be "Oh, how I wish I had never found this stupid lantern!")

After much careful deliberation, I had finally managed to whittle my wishes down to just two. I can still remember them word for word.

1. I wish I knew everything.
2. I wish I could do everything.

(There didn't seem to be much point in having a third wish after that. Two would suffice, thank you Mr. Genie.)

Omniscience and omnipotence, then. I might not have known the actual words just yet, but I had certainly grasped the concepts. I didn't ask for much, did I? Precocious child.

Nowadays, omniscience is, of course, no longer that big a deal. In fact, now that anyone with an Internet connection can have omniscience at the touch of a button, omniscience has become rather a devalued stock. About as special as having indoor plumbing, really.

Omnipotence, then. The final frontier.
So give me Absolute Power, and give it to me now. That's all I ask.

(Warning: The piece which follows contains a dangerously high concencentration of bumptious self-aggrandisement, coupled with thermo-nuclear levels of self-referential Linky Love. First time readers in particular should approach with great caution.)

(now fully, fully, fully updated)

Saturday afternoon: Pre-drink drinks on Old Compton Street with Stuart Hydragenic, Mrs. HG and Mrs. HG's jolly friend. Nice of them all to meet me on my home territory, I thought. First orders placed for the Troubled Diva coffee mug. An excellent start to the weekend's promotional campaign carefree socialising.

-oOo-
Saturday evening: Drinks at The Globe on Bow Street, with a secret, self-appointed cabal of UK webloggers. No names, no pack drill, mum's the word OK?

Why such secrecy? Let me explain. You know how people keep banging on about "A-list bloggers", like the A-list is some sort of abstract concept - a mere figure of speech? Well, these people are wrong. The A-list is - of course! - a real list, written down on a piece of paper and kept under lock and key in a secret location. Because why on earth would the A-list be an imaginary list? That would be just stupid.

So, (now gather round closely, and not a word to anyone, and if you do then I'll only deny it) get this: our intrepid little group had managed to discover the location, sneak in, pick the lock, and steal the A-list. Look, here it is! Except...it's not the A-list any more. Oh dear me, no. We have replaced it with a new list. Our list. Ahahahahaha!

Obviously, the brilliance of this coup de blog needed to be toasted - and toast it we most certainly did. Having done that, we then sat around earnestly discussing Trackbacks and Movable Type plug-ins for most of the rest of the evening. But then, when you're A-list (ahahahahaha!), you do have a certain agenda-setting responsibility.

This was also my best chance yet to Push The Product. Not only was I modelling the first of the Troubled Diva T-shirts (from the Classic range, as opposed to the Novelty range), but I also ensured that both coffee mugs were strategically placed on the ledge behind me, in full view of the group, thus Maintaining Product Visibility At All Times. The Buzz amongst the secret cabal (or were they my Street Team by now?) was tangible. I felt quite confident that they would all go away and write unsolicited and spontaneous Positive Copy about the Product forthwith. (And I'm sure they still intend to, as well. It's clearly just taking a little bit longer than I had anticipated.)

-oOo-
Saturday late night: Over to Duckie, for more blog-based socialising: this time with the group that I always think of as the Very Long Blog Name Beginning With TH Set. This consisted of:

• Dave Spellcnut of they didn't teach me about this in school (now renamed London Calling). Now, I don't want to blow Dave's carefully constructed online persona out of the water here, but - well - he was a total Sweetheart, basically. We chatted like old friends - as indeed we are, having communed together many times on the Naked Blog Tagboard - and even chinked our cans together in a toast to Peter himself. I should also add that Dave doesn't look a great deal like his photos - mainly because he's a good deal more smiley than you might have imagined.
• Dave's partner Darren of these moments that i've had. In contrast, Darren looked exactly like his photos. Good to meet him, and I'm enjoying his blog.
• Their mate Rob of those wonderful people out there in the dark. Actually, I was a bit nervous about meeting Rob, as (unless I am very much mistaken) he has - quelle horreur - de-blogrolled me (for shame!). Or maybe he never blogrolled me in the first place? Oh dear. Fret fret. However, he seemed friendly enough, even though we didn't spend a great deal of time talking to each other. But then it was very dark, and very noisy, and I was very drunk.

Joining our group was Steve of My Ace Life (whom I had briefly met before), and also floating round were various other "fancy seeing you here after all this time" long lost friends:

• My Irish ex-pat pal who works at the National Theatre...
• ...my first ever regular e-mail buddy from years back, who goes to the Retro Bar pop quizzes and who knows this mysterious blogger...
• ...and - well, bugger me sideways! - my old mate Log, formerly of the Bunkers Hill pub in Nottingham, and now a big bright shining Proper Web Celebrity, thanks to his perennially marvellous disappointment.com. In one of those "Hey - Small World!" moments, Log and Steve My Ace Life also turned out to be old friends, and so there was much delighted "Well, I never did do!" finger-pointing all round.

Every week at Duckie comes with a different "theme", and this week's was billed as Northern Soul Night. To this end, the main dancefloor area had been dusted with talcum powder, in authentic Wigan Casino style. However - bar the playing of R. Dean Taylor's There's A Ghost In My House - that's pretty much where the "theme" began and ended, with a promised World's Worst Northern Soul Dancer competition never materialising.

Never mind. Instead, we witnessed a wonderful modern dance performance by the two-piece h2dance ensemble, who combined classical ballet music with hardcore nosebleed breakbeats to marvellous effect. Proper art, no less! The Readers Wifes awarded their Best! Record! Evah! accolade this week to XTC's Senses Working Overtime...but best of all, they played Carly Simon's You're So Vain (outright winner of the Which Decade Is Tops For Pops Project, remember?), to a packed dancefloor. As no-one else in our little group seemed to be in the mood for dancing, I peeled myself away and shamelessly hurled myself around on my own. Well, maybe not every single person in the room had noticed my Troubled Diva Classic Range T-shirt yet (although I did make a point of leaning over the raised walkway for most of the evening, so it shouldn't have been too hard to spot).

-oOo-
Saturday very late night / Sunday morning: Steve and I move down the road to Crash. Jabber jabber, tops off, jiggle jiggle, jabber jabber, oh just one more then, jiggle jiggle, no I must go home soon, jabber jabber, come on, OUT that door, you're out for lunch tomorrow AND the clocks are going forward, remember?

-oOo-
Sunday morning: Having somehow managed to navigate myself back to Sasha's in the early morning light, I wake to the sound of D on my mobile, ringing to arrange meeting for lunch. Ohmigod, talk about cramming everything in. Crash was fun - but, in the cruel light of day, maybe not strictly necessary.

Sasha fixes me with a hot beverage and sorts me out with a taxi, as I sit in her exceptionally gorgeous flat (all light and space and split levels and double heights and internal windows and tasteful furnishings and, ooh, really really lovely) and try to order my thoughts. I'm feeling bad about being such a fleeting guest, and sorry that we're not getting to spend more time together. Before leaving, I solemnly present Sasha with the one and only Troubled Diva Classic Range mug currently in existence. This is known as Leaving Samples Of The Product With Key Opinion Formers.

My minicab driver has quite possibly never been out of Kilburn before - and I'm only going as far as Camden Town tube. He starts to pick loose sheets randomly out of his road atlas. Oh dear: he has plucked out the Stratford / Leyton / Leytonstone page, and is now studying it intently. I think I'd better say something...

D and Pix (or maybe "Pix" is a tad too familiar - no, I think I shall call her annelizabeth instead) are waiting at the appointed spot, and whisk me away through the sun-drenched and beautifully appointed streets of Primrose Hill - where paparazzi from Heat magazine lurk on every street corner, waiting for Jude Law & Sadie Frost to pop out to the newsagents. D has already mentioned this, but I must re-iterate: there really was a garden hedge shaped to look like a gigantic dead pigeon. Eyes and everything. Spectacular!

We were also very much taken with the "peace fence" at the lower edge of the grassy hill area itself. Various anti-war messages had been threaded through the railings by local children - but this being nice Primrose Hill, where they bring their kids up proper, all the messages had been written out in Best on neatly co-ordinating little luggage labels. No Greenham Common style tree-hugging hippy crap here, thank you very much.

You could also tell where you were by the somewhat erudite nature of the messages that dear little Jasper and Molly had left for Nasty Mister Bush and Bad Mister Blair to read. "War is inappropriate." Ah, bless their little hearts.

Over a cooked breakfast in a delightfully chic little café, I handed D a "thank you for designing my guest week logo" goody bag, which mostly contains chocolate. I bet you'll never guess what else was in it. Yup - a Racist Ducks Novelty Range coffee mug. Which nicely matched the Racist Ducks T-shirt which I now proudly unveiled from under my jacket and shirt. Because I wasn't going to let up for one moment.

D and annelizabeth turned out to be wholly delightful company, of course. A truly charming couple, who simply radiated bliss and contentment. So much so that at one point, they stopped short, threw each other meaningful glances, and muttered "God, we sound like one of those annoyingly perfect couples from Bridget Jones' Diary." Which only endeared them to me further, as K and I have long suffered from a similar perception. Honestly, the number of times that we have been wheeled out for the benefit of friends of friends who are Coming To Terms With Their Sexuality...

("Here we go again", we will mutter seditiously. "We're f***ing role models. Can't we just stage an enormous row for once? Shall we start accusing each other of shagging loads men behind each other's backs? Can we make it really toe-curlingly embarrassing? Can we? Oh go on...")

Er, yes. Where were we, anyway? Oh right, D and annelizabeth. Yes, lovely people - but once again, I don't want to start unravelling anybody's carefully constructed Enigmatic Web Presence, so I shall say no more. Except to note that D's proposed Camden/North London Bloggers' picnic, scheduled to take place on Primrose Hill next Saturday, sounds like a capital idea.

-oOo-
Update. Sunday afternoon/evening: Oh, hello. What are you doing here? You've come back to see whether I ever got round to finishing this piece off, haven't you? Because you know how I hate leaving things unfinished. And you're quite right, of course - I do hate leaving things unfinished. So why the long delay?

Well - since there's no-one left reading this except you and me, and the odd stray Googler - I might as well tell you. After leaving D and annelizabeth, I headed south for the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, where I remained for most of the rest of the day. Now, as regular readers will know, I've visited the RVT several times before over the last year or so, and have always had an outstandingly good time there. Until this time.

Don't get me wrong here. It wasn't the fault of the RVT, and it certainly wasn't the fault of the people I was with (the usual suspects: David, Ian, Luca, Steve et al) - it's just that, particularly after the excesses of the night before, I really wasn't in the mood. Or rather: I no longer had sufficient reserves of the social resources which the occasion demands. Instead, I fell back into the old trap of subordinating myself, feeling like a spare part, feeling like a bore, feeling like I had nothing of value to contribute. Know what I'm talking about? Of course you do. We've all been there, haven't we?

Anyway, we sat about for a couple of hours in the gorgeous sunshine on the famous Grassy Knoll (meaning I could at least hide behind my shades a while longer), drinking cans of beer from the local offy, before wandering in for The DE Experience. After the show, when the dancing started, I put my best "oh yes, I'm having a good time really" face on and jiggled about on auto-pilot for a while. David had gone home sick...Luca was outside, looking after an equally sick Dr. Bitful...the numbers were dwindling...and I found myself wondering what I was still doing there. Plus, I really, really missed him. It just wasn't the same without him.

Eventually, around 20:30, and to my immense relief, Ian mentioned that he was heading up the road to Dukes. Delighted at the chance to escape the mayhem, I hitched along with him. Unfortunately, I then instantly switched over into "let's be all earnest and heartfelt and deep, and talk about the things which, you know, really matter" mode, and proceeded to chew his ear off with my overweening Sincerity.

So let's leave us there this time, shall we? Me gabbling away in a dark pub over my umpteenth pint, just a couple of hours away from catching the last train back to Nottingham, and - frustratingly - just half an hour short of being able to meet Paul for the first time.

Anyway, I'll be back. Of course I'll be back. We all have our off days, after all. So just treat the above as a sort of minor-key variation on the usual theme. But shush, right? I don't think anyone suspected a thing. Let it be our little secret.

It turns out that the late Edwin Starr was actually resident in Chilwell (a suburb of Nottingham) at the time of his death. (Motown legend? Chilwell? Does not compute.)

It also turns out that his last ever interview was given just a few days ago to our local newspaper, the Nottingham Evening Post, who have published it today. The article also reveals that a new version of Starr's classic War (recorded with the Utah Saints) is to be released as a posthumous single.

Edwin Starr's Contact was actually the very first extended 12" single I ever bought, back in January 1979 (on bright pink vinyl), on the strength of a review by James Hamilton in Record Mirror - thus kicking off my lifelong obsession with dance music. RIP, Edwin.

Update: Take Scaryduck's Edwin Starr Memorial Mini Poll (his archives have gone all wonky, so you'll have to scroll down to Saturday April 5th).

It's all going off, isn't it?

US webloggers are promoting milk-based beverages...
...a marketing firm is actively recruiting webloggers to promote further products...
...Peter is accepting sponsored product placements on Naked Blog...
...and I'll shortly be launching a merchandise range. Wa-hey!

But so far, one site has to take the biscuit. From the top of the "Recently updated UK weblogs list", where it has started popping up with suspicious regularity - ladies and gentlemen, I give you the artfully titled aaron abbott.

Where will it all end?

This quiz has been devised as something of a tribute to the really boring bits at the beginning of full-length extended dance mixes. You know: the ones which start with at least a minute and a half of minimal drum-beats. Or, if you're very lucky, a single repeated bass note might appear after about 30 seconds, or maybe a tiny little sample stab, in order to build up the excitement. This is done purely so that DJs can easily mix tunes together, without worrying about awkward clashing keys and the like. Which is fine if you're a DJ, but skull-crushingly dull for everyone else, as we hang around waiting for something vaguely interesting to start happening. (I wonder how many hours of my life have been cumulatively wasted in this way? It doesn't bear thinking about.)

I have therefore decided to do something useful - and who knows, maybe even entertaining? - with all this wasted acreage of percussive dreariness. To whit, another daft Troubled Diva quiz, with prizes.

Actually, let's talk about the prizes first.

As previously mentioned, I will shortly offering a full range of exciting and stylish Troubled Diva merchandise for sale via this site (via my old mate Rob, whose company is gearing itself up to become the UK equivalent of Cafe Press). T-shirts, coffee mugs, mousemats and record bags will all be available, in a choice of design: either the Troubled Diva title bar (the Classic Range), or the "racist ducks" picture from earlier in the year (the Novelty Range). And like the good little wannabe marketeer that I am, I naturally recognise the value of Raising Brand Awareness and Stimulating Demand. Because if I'm going to sell out to the forces of Rampant Commercialism and Naked Profiteering (and lending a helping hand to my old mate Rob of course, which is actually the Main Thing, honest), then I might as well do things properly.

Therefore, I am proud to announce that the first prize in this competition will be: an exclusive Troubled Diva coffee mug & matching mousemat, from the Classic Range. There will also be a runner-up prize of either a mug or a mousemat (your choice). These are quality goods which would grace any desktop, as well as being a visible demonstration of your loyalty to your favourite weblog. OK, I sense I'm overdoing it now. Onto the competition, then.

-oOo-
Take a listen to this MP3, which contains the opening eight bars of twenty recent(ish) dance records, in ascending beats-per-minute order. (Total duration: just under 5 minutes) Marvel at just how tedious even eight bars can be. Shake your head at the woeful lack of creativity prevalent in the dance music industry, etc. etc.

To help you locate each intro more easily, here's a list showing at what time each intro occurs on the MP3.Now take a listen to this MP3, which contains the "middle bits" (i.e. eight bars where something is actually happening, like a chorus) of four of those twenty tunes. Once again, I've included the precise start time of each tune within the MP3.Your task is to successfully match the four "middle bits" with the correct four "boring intro bits". Sounds simple enough, right? Well, it's actually quite difficult. In fact, it's bloody difficult. So, to make things slightly easier and to give you more of a fighting chance, I have also arranged the four "middle bits", like the intros, in ascending beats-per-minute order.

Tomorrow, there will be four more "middle bits" to match up, with a further four at the weekend and a final four on Monday. Four mystery intros will therefore remain completely unmatched.

When you have matched up all sixteen tunes (and not before!), e-mail me with your guesses. The person with the most correct guesses wins first prize, and the second highest wins, er, second prize. In the event of a tie, I'll take the first answer received.

Note: I'll be amazed if anybody gets all sixteen answers correct (although there are ways of cheating, of course). So do have a bash at it, even if you're not 100% confident of your answers.

And just think! In a couple of weeks time, a Troubled Diva coffee mug and mousemat might be sitting on your desk!

This is the final nail in the coffin of my integrity as a weblogger, isn't it?

Update: There's a quick summary of the rules (which are dead easy, no, honest, they are!) in comment #9 below.

Update: MP3s now deleted.

There's an excellent almost-daily autobiographical series currently going on at London Mark, which - to swipe someone else's phrase - rises above the quotidian. Well worth your attention, I reckon.

Sue Bailey's site has just undergone a truly stunning re-design, which I feel could even signal a major paradigm shift for the way that the rest of us construct our sites. Exemplary stuff.

Update: It was, of course, an April Fool thing. I *heart* April Fool things.

An idea whose time has come, a pragmatic way of meeting increasingly steep bandwidth charges, or a worrying new development which threatens to compromise all who participate?

Update: It was, of course, an April Fool thing. I *heart* April Fool things.

...to the brand new but already excellent Frail Loop, raising the bar of British blogging once again.

Update: It was, of course, an April Fool thing. I *heart* April Fool things.

...and now it's just back to little old me, blogging on me tod, with - as from tomorrow, April 1st - increasingly less time at my disposal to do so. But as long as you're not coming here for Quantity, then I'm sure we can work something out together.

Wasn't Guest Week great, though? Wasn't it? Wasn't it?

For my own part, I particularly enjoyed the novel sensation of regularly checking for updates on my own site. I also liked the way that a lot of the postings naturally followed on from each other in terms of subject matter - be it chocolate, spoons or, erm, self-mutilation. Now, that's memetic.

But most of all, I must pay tribute to the sheer quality of all five of my guest contributors - and yes, I do mean that most sincerely, folks. Appreciation, gratitude, Massive Respect and Big Big Love goes out to:

• the fragrant lady Ms. Anna Pickard of little.red.boat - bigged up in this morning's New Media Guardian, no less, and deservedly so.
• my brand new buddy D of Acerbia (the blog from over here that's big over there), creator of last week's gorgeous title graphic.
• Faustus M.D., still searching for love o'er yonder pond - good luck with the cabaret show, and make sure you sue the asses off those printers...
• Mr. Cor, Worra Whopper! D., the non-weblogger who took to the medium like a seasoned natural.
• velvet-tonsilled noodle vague of The World, Backwards, whom I shall imagine for ever more in a midnight blue sequinned jerkin and Simon Cowell trousers, giving it up for the Bingo Ladies of Humberside.

Coming up later this week:

• Apotheosis Of Blog (Slight Return) - linky-love (and skilful product placement) writ large in the Big Smoke.
• Building The Brand with official TD merchandising (coming up in Phase 2 of the campaign: the TD range of tasty and refreshing milk-based drinks)
• Yet another competition, this time in the form of a tribute to the tedium of the fully extended dance mix.

But now - bed, sweet bed. Because after the weekend just gone, my battered little brain is no longer capable of forming another coherent thought.

Well, well, well.
Well.
Well.

Do you remember the Which Decade Is Tops For Pops Project?
Well, of course you do - it was only a month ago, after all.

Do you remember the final day of the project, when I said this?Well, you know what? Just five days later, very very quietly so no-one (including me) would notice, this appeared.

And you know what else? It's every bit as good as I'd hoped it would be.

Welcome to the sunlit uplands, Stranger.

Posted by D

And so guest week ended very fittingly with a fleeting visit from Mike. We took him to enjoy the serene celebness of Café Seventy-Nine in Primrose Hill replete with teacup chandeliers and vegetarian sausages that were more like evil potato croquettes. We saw luggage tags tied to fences extolling how war in Iraq "simply isn't on", a hedgerow shaped like a pigeon out cold, and the silo on Primrose Hill where Thunderbird One is kept locked away in case London comes under terrorist attack. I have a piece of unique Troubled Diva merchandise that I will cherish and checking the keyboard now I can understand how someone can typo "racist ducks" since the d and the f are side-by-side...

I have been given lots of food for thought regarding my tastes in chocolate (no literally, Mike gave me some rather posh chocolate) and gained a fearful respect for liver. In future I will hide myself under a blanket to drink milk just in case any nearby pieces of liver decide to have a go. Also... Jeremy Clarkson, he's alright really. Honest. Not as alright as Nigella Lawson though. Phoar!

(posted by noodle vague)

So that's it then. What a luvverly week it's been. I've learned why Hershey's Kisses taste so rank, and where the SS took their holidays in 1939. I've enjoyed meeting new people and reading their frabjous blogs. I'm only sorry I don't have a picture of me stood next to a big ol' eel to leave you with.

I'd like to give big thanks and love to Mike for allowing us to squat his luxury pad for the week. I think I've got all the furniture back where it came from and I'm sure that unsightly stain in the spare bedroom will come off with a bit of bleach. I'd also like to thank all of Troubled Diva's regular readers for putting up with this pish and not throwing stuff. I'm sure normal service will be very much resumed tomorrow.

's been a gas. Peace out.