The one-legged black lesbian bereavement support group

Woke nice and early and played Lego quietly downstairs as promised. Jof has bought me a set of walkie-talkies to temper the shock of her absence (apparently she's away) so we took them to Tunnel Park on the bottlebank walk. I was so hot I removed my shirt. The radios are absolutely excellent and on the way back I wandered around swingpark while he did some shopping, they even transmit through buildings so I just kept tweeting him and updating him on my current position.

We will do this more often. I couldn't believe it when he made me go out again, just because there was a beer offer at Lidl.

Another 53 chillies were pulped while I cleared up the room so that Box #8 could go out on a tidy high.

After what seemed like an age, the Puddlers arrived. Beers were opened and we got to work in Box #8. (Erin has already planned Box #9, and she desires a lift to the upper levels, no doubt powered by us plebs on the treadmill) The JoniBobs arrived with weapons aforethought, for that is their way. We hooted, played and argued (this is normal). Gradually the lacklustre PuddleDaddies cheered up, their temporary losses forgotten. See the before and after pictures of how the Support Group helped these despondent chaps in their hour of need.

Lego started as the football results came in: then the Problem happened.

 The Problem.

We all knew that tonight Box #8 was due for destruction. It has lasted 3 weeks: this is the maximum lifespan for a cardboard castle of its nature. Thus, we all wanted to kill it, and burn it. Unless you are A) a member of the PuddleGroup or B) have many many insane children of your own in the 6-7 age range, you can never fully appreciate the rampant bloodlust of little people tasked with destroying something and consigning it to the inferno pit of hell.

Erin already has a hoop on her karate belt and she's strong anyway, and all the boys are weapons-obsessed, so we're a farce to be reckoned with. We attacked it with total primal scream gusto and with the help of Bud with his dangerous Knife Of Doom, we soon had the whole thing in bits at the bottom of the garden awaiting the traditional conflagration. I'm not kidding. The poor little adults had a hard time keeping up.

With the assistance of random sausages and LIDL drinkies, we utterly killed it and, with a certain amount of crying "he took my turn/kicked me in the face on purpose/why can't I burn the sword" etc - but this is normal and soon forgotten -we cleared the whole room which now needs hoovering. At 7pm the rest of the PuddleDaddies called it: this was actually their original plan for they wanted to go home, feed and bath their little angels and get the wine out. OMFG, it was good. No party of ours ends up cold, for sooner or later we find something to burn. Life is good.

After my mixed pasta/kiwi fruit/yogurt/chocolate meal, we did Bath Fizzer Night with Queen live killers and dinosaurs, some things never change. I got hiccups again due to excess laughter, this is the way of things. In other news, I am 6 and 3/4 today so was measured: I have grown 1.5 cm in the last 3 months. I'm nearly big enough to go down the red waterslide at the Pyramids.