Yesterday I went down to the Museum of Garden History, in suffocating humidity, to check out the Blake exhibit. I was terrorised by a very insistent harpy who demanded the 'voluntary' entrance fee of £3, which I -uh- didn't have. (Tragic but true...) I'd never had that problem before, and said I'd pay on the way out. There was hardly anything to see, anyway, apart from the stuff that's always there.
There was a 'Sick Rose' comic by David Burrows that looked interesting, but I suppose it cost money. I didn't dare ask, as the woman was still glaring and chomping at me. Nothing else I saw was really worth being humiliated (or coughing up 3 quid, if I'd had it, for.)
Bizarre scenes in the BB house last night, culminating in the edifying spectacle of pigdrunk Anthony puking his guts onto the cream carpet,while being clucked over by poor, needy Craig. Sometimes it's like re-living one's own embarrassing heyday, watching these eejits. Haven't we all, at some point, been the gross, mindless pukee and/or the pointlessly devoted attendant? Sigh, feckless youth...