And may I wish a very good day to all our regular readers.

Most of you I’m sure will be delighted (although I cherish the notion that at least a few of you may be somewhat dismayed) to find that this week’s wittering is rather shorter than usual, on the grounds that we have no gigs recently played to tell you about, and that coming up this weekend we have only one – and since it’s a private function, there’s little point trying to encourage folks to come along.

I can tell you that it will be in exotic and cosmopolitan Dursley, and that it’s an annual party for a local amateur dramatic society.

Lily, with her thespian tendencies will doubtless fit right in – in fact, they might not give her back. Anyways – full report next week, brace yourselves for tales of jazz-hands fabulosity.

So that just leaves me to deliver what I suspect is probably one of the finest most dreadful jokes I have heard in a while.

This one comes courtesy of a pal of mine from work, who shall remain anonymous – mainly for his own safety.

Ready?

I bought a pair of shoes off a drug dealer last night.

I don’t know what he laced them with, but I’ve been tripping all day.

You’re welcome.

Square on
A