A good Friday indeed. I wasn't scheduled to start work till 1pm so I relaxed. Poor old Jof had the big splurgy cold so she required bacon, and Bud had to do all the hard work carrying home that heavy £20 note somebody had dropped on the pavement. My bank account will give the sad abandoned £20 note recognition and a new place to live.
On the way in to the theatre it was immediately obvious that it was Football Day. It used to mean more when we lived on the same street as the football stadium because of all the policepersons in the roadway but we still saw lots of police wagons and police horses and police strongmen, and our opponents were Plymouth so there were some songs about ooo-arrs and cider and tractors.
The performance went off beautifully. We played to a packed house and all the tables were full and the astroturf lawn in front of the tables was full and most of the audience wasn't drunk but they certainly enjoyed themselves.
But I was epic and the production was epic and if you don't believe me, buy tickets. Here follows another in the series of "It 'aint a bad place to live" with a view of the Spinnaker Tower and one in a new series called "Portly the Otter abroad" where I shall appear in person and stage make-up in a variety of local places. Today: Canoe Lake, just the right place for a junior Otter.
Saturday Night is Film Night (even if it's Friday) so we watched the real-life exploits of Mr Frank Abagnale Jnr as he blagged himself around the world to a permanent job consulting for the FBI.