I'm gutted. The telephone started to ring just before 22:00. I went to answer it, but it wasn't in the cradle.
Where was it?
We had a crank call earlier on in the evening. Phyllis had answered it and, in disgust, simply sat down on the sofa and put the telephone on the floor, out of sight. I had to ask him where it was. The telephone had long since stopped ringing.
I dialed 1471 and, indeed, there was a message. My best friend, Alan, had called from Dubai. How special was that? And all I got was voicemail.
Alan, if you're reading this, I'm so sorry.
Other than that, it had been quite a pleasant evening. We had Mushroom Stroganoff for dinner, followed by tiramisu:
I follow Delia Smith's recipe, but amend it slightly, adding a wee tub of cream (142 ml/5 fl oz - unbeaten) to the mascarpone and substituting Amaretto for Rum.
We watched TV... I was gutted to find Sarah Beeny wasn't on at all. But, oh joy of joys, Kim and Aggie were back, finding filth in the nation's hospitals. I just adore Kim Woodburn. She's as camp as Christmas, as sweet as your Mother, obsessed with nookie, flirts with men (gay and straight), loves to put the duster round for you, has immaculate hair and sports the most fabulous make-up since Cleopatra experimented with eyeliner.
After a bit of telly, I carried on with my scarf. I'm quite pleased with it, though haven't got as much length as I would have hoped (the story of my life). The gold thread must weigh heavier than the reg and green, as I ran out of gold long before the red was used up. When the gold was done, I started on the green. When I'm done with the green, I shall have to go out and buy another ball of wool and another ball of gold thread. I'd like the end product to be at least a third longer than it will be if I simply stop when the green runs out.
So, that was my evening. I missed out on a brief period of fabulous in the middle of what would normally have been pretty dull.
Oh, and Phyllis went to bed early complaining of a bad stomach! Could it be the raw egg? Doubt it. I'd be feeling ill, too, and I'm as right as rain.
I hope he'll feel better in the morning. I'm accompanying him to Newton Stewart. I've never been there before. Britt Ekland might have described it as dismal, but hey, perhaps she wasn't smacked off her face that day or licking cocaine off of Rod Stewart's dick? My friend Peter was born there - so it must be fabulous.
I will take my camera with me tomorrow - so be prepared for Minge's bad photography.