Hum

I hum.

(.. there fore I am...?)

So does the hamster.

Are we starting a new reality show for ITV? Don't worry, you're safe, I'm talking strictly ponging.

We had a two hour window today while the small people were at a birthday party and since the lazy good-for-nothing sun actually made it out of it's festering pit for the first time in ages, we took to the garden in an effort to tidy it all up a bit. Nobby was on weed duty but I headed straight for the bonfire area to play the pyromaniac, reminiscent of autumn days at my Grandad's house where he burned pretty much anything in his purpose built firepits at the end of the garden.

Perhaps it's Pickle's influence with his new found love of The Prodigy ever since I started letting the kids choose the tunes on my i-pod on the way to school. They were getting somewhat frustrated with my Depeche Mode fetish and my excuse when they asked me to change the tune of 'I'm currently a taxi driver, not a DJ' led to them grabbing the gadget and doing it themselves.

So now I'm a Firestarter, twisted firestarter. Well, I should use the term carefully today as I didn't exactly produce a roaring blaze because things were a bit damp. But I do hum of essence of bonfire smoke.

And that's not all.

Tiggy, the little darling, thought Christmas had come early when she spotted, and successfully cornered a tiny ginger ball of fluff under the hedge. Obviously I am a total softie when it comes to furry creatures - ask Nobby; I always have little cuddle with Lucky the hamster before bedtime, however 'musical' his cage is since Pickle can't find it in himself to clean it out - so I also hum of essence of privet hedge and helpless kitten after I dived on to rescue it and take it home.

Lastly I have a subtle whiff about me of car maintenance after getting busy with the T-Cut on my motor when Nobby pointed out the horrific scratch on my rear wing, the result of being forced into a hedge by an urban tractor who needed the whole bl**dy road the other day.

Thankfully no-one at the birthday party commented on my new perfume when I went for the pickup. Either they are too polite or they didn't notice over the heady aroma of sweaty child since it had been a football party and they were all rather glowing by the end of it.

Before I clock off to watch a movie with Nobby - it's Saturday Darby and Joan on the sofa night - let me leave you with a classic from the Pickle-meister.

We went to a Mongolian Barbecue last evening to avoid cooking. I should warn to the connoisseur that this was Mongolian with a Hungarian twist - they only cooked marinated meat on the griddle, all veggies were on the side either au gratin, deep fried or boiled to death. But still it was a nice evening, and there was a wide range of meat to choose from, including goat and horse for the adventurous.

As an addition there was some small speckled eggs on the counter by the griddle. Whilst watching his choice of meats sizzle away, Pickle asks Nobby,

'What are those Daddy?'

'Those are quail eggs, Pickle,' replies Nobby.

'Oh. Well, they look really small for a whale.'