Alison's Diary

Jun 29 2008

MONDAY

Watching Springwatch Sealife hosted by Kate Humble. I like her. She shows we should eat other fish than just cod and haddock and deep-fries lots of yummy varieties so people can do a taste test. No one can tell the difference. The sight of the hot batter is too much for me. "I fancy a fish supper," I say. "Me too," adds Louis. "You've had your tea," says Captain Sensible Dave. You can tell he is from Edinburgh. He relents though and batters the trout he caught while up north. Delicious. I now understand why watching TV makes you fat. I'm going to pop into my friendly local fishmonger Armstrongs to ask if they stock these weird and wonderful fish. So haddock and cod no more - pollocks to that.

I am now an eco fish warrior.

TUESDAY

Dynamite is off to London but her fake tan is fading fast, so I offer to do an amateur respray. She agrees to this rather rashly considering we had to spend most of last week swathed in kaftans to hide our Tangoed bodies. "Whip off your breeks," I demand as I get the tan in a can out. I spray around for a while, a few bluebottles buzz to the floor and collapse, the dog leaves the room and Di changes colour. "I'm impressed with that," I say proudly as I snap off my thin rubber gloves. I tell her to stand still and wait for it to develop while I pour us a glass of wine. Soon, it still hasn't done its stuff but I need to go to sleep, so off she goes into the night. I get a text later. "Hi, it's jobby face here - and my feet are orange." Eek!

WEDNESDAY

I pluck up the courage to call Dynamite. She has been washing her hands with lemon juice and scrubbing her palms off with a nail file because they are a dark, dirty brown. "Look on the bright side," I say cheerily. "At least they won't be able to fingerprint you if you turn to a life of crime because you'll have rubbed them all away." She didn't sound convinced. Still, at least her eyes aren't puffy and itchy like mine. My eczema is driving me to drink. A reader, Janet Morton from Edinburgh, emailed to recommend infant starflower cream, so I hope it works. I'll report back. And a heartfelt thank you for the cards of condolence which arrived today - they are a source of great strength.

THURSDAY

Go for a power-walk and take Sam the labrador. She is definitely losing her marbles. Discover a long, steep flight of steps that run from the Water of Leith to Haymarket, which I run up and down on my way past. While I wheeze up and down, the daft dug wanders off lonely as a cloud. Twice I have to run 500 yards in each direction shouting until helpful joggers or other dog walkers ask: "Are you looking for a greying labrador with a vacant expression?" "Yes, that's her," I shout as I round a corner, only to see her panicked expression and panting face. She is definitely trying to shake me off. Get home and call Di, who is now on her way to London. Have several half conversations but get cut off each time she goes through a tunnel. Looking forward to hearing about her shenanigans.

FRIDAY

Dynamite calls from Kensington Roof Gardens. "What are you doing there?" I ask. "I have somehow ended up at Richard Branson's pre-Wimbledon party," she laughs. "Who is there?" I asked. "Lots of tennis players but I don't know who they are. I haven't been able to recognise one since Bjorn Borg. There is a 6ft 8in blonde behind me." "Is he good looking?" I ask. "Well, yes, but it's a woman," Di reveals. The good thing is, the tennis players are steering clear of the booze, so Dynamite gets stuck into the champagne and cocktails. Perfect night out. She is off to Dartford later to see her old pal Anne Smith, who is starring in the classic farce Big Bad Mouse with Cannon and Ball. Di better be up for a party as the lads head home after the show and Anne is desperate to go out and live it up.

SATURDAY

Having a curry at the top of Leith Walk when there are sudden head-turnings in the restaurant. Four leggy girls have just come in and on closer inspection turn out to be Escala from Britain's Got Talent. When I say closer inspection, the two men sitting with us get an elbow to the ribs - or slightly lower - and are told to stop drooling. Close behind the girls is local boy Andrew Muir, the singing plumber. It seems the Britain's Got Talent live tour is on at The Playhouse next door. At this point, my auntie Joyce, who has been singularly unimpressed, suddenly sits up. Has George Clooney just come in? Brad Pitt? Simon Cowell? No it's Gin the dancing dog. Her daughter-inlaw Dawn drags her over to say hello and snaps this photo. After that everyone needed a gin.