I've given up trying to find somewhere to go on holiday, because they just don't let you smoke anywhere. I mean, Turkey's not an option, obviously, and now that it's banned in Lanzarote, there's just nowhere left, is there? It's stressing me up enough even thinking about this fashion show of Julian's next weekend. Last time we went to a fashion show, they told me and your father off for smoking outside on the pavement. I'll just have to get some patches, I suppose.
So we're not going on holiday in October, just day trips. We've never been to the Cotswolds, so I suppose we'll just have to go there to smoke. And at least I'll be able to pick up a Wade cottage or two, and maybe a Moorcroft cufflink dish. They've got them coming out of their ears in the Cotswolds.
Only, I'll have to make sure Paul's available to look after the dog, because he's getting old. The other night, he'd been eating some pasta or a curry or something and ended up vomiting by the back door. Bloody typical. I shouldn't be wiping up dog vomit every five minutes, not with my leg. And I haven't slept properly in weeks, either. I've got this new bathroom in the bungalow to get organised and that will just create more chaos. I just wish they'd give me some oestrogen...
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