Rain Starts Play (1-0 to KirkbyGirl)

Of all the days of the week, surely Sunday should offer the gentlest of starts? Not so here, today: rumbling thunder, massive shards of lightening and the kind of rain that makes you wonder if someone is sitting on the roof emptying the contents of a swimming pool over the bedroom window woke me before the alarm clock even attempted to start shattering my dreams, resulting in much very dramatic wake up call courtesy of Ma Nature (who right now could easily be a third member of Sparks circa the 'Kimono My House' era). How fabulous is that? And how odd, too, to wake up alone in the middle of all this. Don't worry - advice from the magnificent Mariella Frostrup is not needed: Beloved went off for an evening in Bristol, that's all, and I had neither the will nor the wherewithall to join him as planned, what with having been at a hen lunch during the daytime followed by a bottle of wine on the terrace of the bar opposite the Theatre Royal afterwards, where a chef - apparently angered by a restaurant review I wrote almost a year ago (get over it!!!) attempted to throw the contents of a glass of wine over me, missed, and soaked the (unrelated) woman sitting next to me instead. Ooooh, funny! (but not, I admit, for the woman in question) (or her linen jacket). Would you have got on a train to Bristol after so much excitement? I'll be doing exactly that this afternoon, though; for the first time in my life, I'm going to see a real live football match (Bristol City vs ... another team) - one doesn't have the option of such an activity in Bath. 

Anyway, that's enough random rambling - I actually dropped by to redirect you to somebody else's witty words today. Following a nice bit of back and forth blogbaiting, the KirkbyGirl has excelled herself to the point where I'm fully aware that a rather enticing gauntlet has been thrown down. She's a sassy one, is Dollface. One day we're going to collaborate on the best sitcom known to woman ... and she's certainly got the ball rolling with her current post. If you find any of it confusing, come back to me for interpretation. All I'll say for now is that everything she remembers really happened: Jazz was my dog, we all lived on a staple diet of late night pakoras, Lenny McMillan really did take a penchant for pink to a whole extra-terrestrial level, I really did change a Miss Selfridge frock that I'd had for a decade (as Dolly says, they asked for it) and the particular time that she's captured so well were, I guess, our halcyon days. But my mates are as fabulous today as they were back when we thought we were grown ups. Want more proof? As I said, a gauntlet has been flung. I intend to contribute my own 'Tales from the City (of Culture?)' in post form right here sometime in the next few days. For now, though, I have to go and rifle through my wardrobe in search of suitable terrace-wear. If only I still had that Miss Selfridge frock ...