I've finished for the week. The shortest week's work I have ever done for a full week's wages.

3 hours

I spent more time travelling to work than performing. The gigs were Monday afternoon and Wednesday morning which left me all day Tuesday to wander around Inverness doing Gay Best Friend Shopping with Emma with me as a sort of scruffy male Carry Bradshaw. I didn't buy a vast amount, but for a sartorialy conservative cheapskate like me two pairs of trousers, two shirts, and a pair of new shoes is a total splurge.
I think Merriol is a bit jealous that after years of trying to get me to start not looking like a total fashion disaster Emma gets all the fun of seeing me spend the money. And, dammit, I did enjoy myself. Shoppping for me (and I suspect most men) is usualy:

1. Decide what you want.
2. Enter shop.
3. Buy it.
4. Leave shop.
(Obviously this rule does not apply in bookshops, record shops, or any establishment selling anything with motors in.)

On Tuesday, for the first time that I can remember, I actually enjoyed browsing clothes shops and trying things on.

Later, having bought all this stuff I was struck low with good old Post Judeo-Christian, Work Ethic Guilt, rushed into Lush and bought glittery stuff for Merriol.

I think she now thinks I'm having an affair.

That's twice in the last month I've bought her nice smellies - and I've started looking after my appearence (I went and got a haircut on Tuesday as well - the first time I have been in a barber's for years; I usually make do with shaving my head every two years).

These are classic symptoms ; straight off any Agony Aunt page over the last 157 years. I mean, if I looked at it objectivly, I would suspect myself if I didn't know that I wasn't having this affair I'm not having with a 17 year old lesbian with a Heinz Tomato Ketchup addiction and a big thing for Angelina Jolie - as yet unrequited.

Angelina, if you ever read this - she's a really nice girl. You'd like her. Mail me and I'll pass on your address...