Okay, so it's been a slow news week.

On Sunday morning, impelled by some vague desire to both recapture lost youth and grow up a bit into the bargain, I made an executive decision to make some French toast. I bought some bacon, eggs, a none-less-healthy Mother's Pride plain loaf and an Observer. The basic idea of a civilised, cooked breakfast avec lefty newspaper covered the growing up part of the equation (and oddly is something I almost never do), while the artery-hardening mix of bacon and plain loaf harked back to childhood days of pushing the token fried tomatoes to one side to get to the good shit.

Of course I made rather a meal of it and eventually sat down to some rubbery French toast that managed to be simultaneously over- and under-cooked, a cup of burnt coffee and a couple of rashers of uninspiring supermarket bacon, but y'know, the thought was there.

Ash ate cereal and yoghurt. Hippie!

On Monday night Coba Fynn - shambling behemoth of rock that it is - got together for the second rehearsal for our Second Coming. Doug and I were so late that David and Charlie went to the pub in our absence, but my word: once we were plugged in and warmed up, you could palpably feel the rock. After you sifted through the cacophonous layers of ear-splitting noise, that is. Roll on December! I predict a Christmas number one.

P.S. Jez' sister Cis (yes, I too thought she was everyone's sister for a while) has put a minor masterpiece of a video up on YouTube. Wilfred the dog: il espère. Il espère.