I cannot be bothered with embedding the video into here because you need a degree in astro-physics to get the HTML to be compliant, so I'll just post this link. Kat doing what she does best. Apologies for the crackle -- it was recorded on my camera.

To say Kat and I had fun this week is to vastly understate. As we sat shivering on Newton-le-Willows platform waiting for the train to Llandudno, the sarcasm commenced and then never stopped.

Kat plugged herself into her iPhone and told me to wave in front of her eyes if I wanted her attention. I told her I would wave from the train as I left. I threw down the gauntlet and got it back in full brute force.

The first night we were there, we were sat on a balcony overlooking the sea. A boat came in but we never saw it leave again but could not spot it anywhere. The conversation went something like this:

K: Here we were sitting in the dock of the bay watching the ships coming in and going out again. Except this one didn't go out out again.
Kat: It's like Titanic.
K: Yes, but without bergs.
Kat: Or ice. Or Whitney Houston. Or tea.

That heralded the start of four days of hilarity. I wish I could remember every quip because they were all priceless. I've arrived home with laugh lines.

I did make a couple of mistakes though. Kat and Nat are easily confused verbally and I've inadvertently called Kat Nat a couple of times. Thankfully she's missed them, I think. Either that or ignored them.

Kat won the artiste of the week at the Grand for her nightly two song set. She won a free holiday -- brochure -- and a bottle of bubbly. She was treated like a celebrity by all the residents. We could not even have breakfast without someone wanting to come and talk to her about what a wonderful voice she has. As we checked out yesterday morning, a middle-aged lady approached her and explained that she was on her way to her room the previous night and could hear some beautiful singing permeating from downstairs so had to go and investigate. Sure enough, it was Kat. Even morphined up to the nines she can carry a tune better than anyone. I swear she has never hit a bum note in her life. I will upload the video from Wednesday now and post a link.

Every time we go there, it's like a new lease of life. Kat relaxes, I mellow as much as I ever do. As soon as Kat has seen her next specialist, we're off again for a few days. In the meantime I need to go find a stats book so I can start thinking about earning some money again. This redundancy money will not last me forever. And if my business idea kicks off, we'll be moving there.

Kat was extricated from the hospital last Tuesday and has spent some time at her mother's, recuperating. She's still very unwell. The good news is that her GP has recommended a change of neurologist so has employed the service of the Manchester area's top neurologist and she has an expedited appointment to see him. I about whooped with joy when I was told; they need to get on this -- it has gone on way too long. We have the opportunity to steal a few days in Llandudno as of tomorrow, too, so we're doing one. About time!

She came here last night. To give you some idea how wonderful the girl is, she called in at Wigan hospital on her way to visit the friends she made on the ward she was on. When she got here, she was armed with a present I would never have thought of buying for myself but is absolutely brilliant; a pseudo stylus for my iPhone that plugs into the earphone jack for storage. Ideal for those of us who were not brought up with tiny keyboards. She is gold-dust.

We spent until very late writing the music to some lyrics I had written in one of my many insomniac nights from the last few weeks. I had already written a melody for them but Kat read them, pronounced that she loved them and promptly rewrote it with a finesse. I much prefer her version so that is what we will record. I know I keep saying this but this song is an absolute winner. If Kat loves it and can instantly compose a melody for it, you know it's good. What she didn't know before I told her was that I'd written it about her being in hospital -- I know, I'm a soft-arse. When we get back from Llandudno, we will definitely record it. It is that good I found myself singing it as I walked up to the 24-hour gas station at midnight.

We also chatted about her situation. Before she was admitted to hospital, she had no idea how many people deeply love her. I've had calls and emails and IMs asking about her status from people who have never even met her. Some of those were obviously from you guys but some are from people I barely know. I should be her PR man for her her to have so many new fans. In fact we should make Kat® a brand. Thank you all for the kind wishes. I promise I will continue to look after her to the best of my abilities. To that end, a couple of days by the sea will start tomorrow. Given the amount of weight she has lost thanks to her meds, a couple of full English breakfasts and some Queen Vic minted lambs with chips will get some meat back on her bones.

I just hope the bloody weather improves. Even it doesn't I'm sure we'll have a blast, as usual. Given our so different backgrounds and ages, it's amazing that we get on so well. As one of my nameless friends said, "You get on so well, bicker a little and there's no sex. That, right there, is the dictionary definition of marriage."

More than the weather, I hope she gets better soon. I cannot conceive her not being here.

If you read this, Kat, it's all nonsense -- I hate your guts. :)

My last few weeks have been hectic, back and fro to the hospital. Kat and I were meant to be heading off for a few days in North Wales but she got even more sick a couple of days before.

All sorts of diagnostics have been done and it seems she's going to be in neurosurgery in the next couple of days.

She hates me saying this, but thinking about her in this state feels like I've been stabbed in the sternum. I can't eat or sleep. All I do is visit her, sit and watch crap TV and worry about her. It's a good job I have no job at the moment -- otherwise I would have lost it.

When Nski and I split up, I was crippled with pain. Even though Kat and I have not and never will have a 'relationship', any kind of harm that could come to her makes my guts flip-flop more than the break-up. She is gold dust.

Kat, get your arse better. You will shout at me for this post, but I do it out of love.

<delimit>

In other news, I may have a date later in the week. We'll leave it at that.

</delimit>

I was off the clock as of 5pm on Wednesday. I think, if ever there was an excuse for shouting w00t, this it. I am now an Amy/man of leisure, for the moment. I cannot complain. It has been a long time coming, it is a short time living, and it will be a long time gone. Since Wednesday (well since before then), I have just haven't slept. I've had 40 minutes of meaningful sleep. So what is that now? 81 hours? I can't be bothered with arithmetic when I'm just about to go out (and I mean literally leave the house for anymore than an hour).

<saturday />

This morning I have been to the doctor's again. Despite being pretty much tricyclic free, I lost two hours of yesterday to hallucinating again. Scary stuff. I saw the doc first thing this morning and as punishment, I have to go have a blood test and am being referred to have an MRI scan. Joy.

I now have to drive over to Leeds to return my laptop, 90s phone, the securid gadget and my passes. That marks the end of seven years of working with some absolutely top people, doing a job that I pretty much hated from day one. I think I had twelve months where I enjoyed it.

<monday />

Well what I anticipated being a horrendous day, turned out to be a really fun one. Kat and I boogied across to Leeds to find one lonely Grommage. The office is like a morgue. There is bank of probably 40 desks with one guy there. Moving further down, there is an area with a similar number of desks that is maybe 20% occupied. It is the Mary Celeste.

Rather than take the motorway home, we went over to Haworth and had a look there and then took the Colne Road over the moors before heading down the M65 to drop Kat off in Bolton and then coming home. As is always the case, Kat and I have the best times when we are utterly skint. It becomes a game of wits.

The one downer to the day was receiving a phone call saying that there was a chance I may not get my redundancy payment until April. Talk about a bombshell. I shall be following up on that this morning. Let me just say for the record that if that is the case, then you may well find me hanging from a tree because without that money, I am royally screwed.

Anyway there is one last trip into Leeds required. That is for mine and Gertrude's leaving do. The provisional date for that is next Friday. I'm dragging Kat (who else?) along. The festivities will commence at the Palace (where else?) and will take in the Aire Bar and Little Tokyo. After that, who the hell knows. If you're in Leeds or Brizzle and I have not sent you an email by COP today, apologies -- you are invited.

I think I have become my dad (sans the financial acumen). I just caught myself talking to myself. I think I have premature dementia. You can forgive yourself for talking out loud when you're doing a calculation but when you are talking to yourself about your actions, that is a bit weirdo.

<bibble />

My grandfather will be turning in his grave.

When I came back from America, I was gutted to see the first pub I ever had a pint in (with my grandfather) had been knocked down. The Britannia in Bryn, or "Wally Bishop's" as we used to call it (even though Wally had been dead for decades) was a unique building. It is the only pub I have ever been in where you feel drunk before you have even sniffed the barmaid's apron. You literally had to walk uphill to get to the bar. It was full of old miners supping mild and smoking woodbines. It was the epitome of Lancashire life. Anyway, the pub has gone and a pile of rubble has remained there for over seven years. Criminal.

Oh, and there was another pub called the Cranberry about the same distance away from where I live that my grandfather used to frequent when he was younger and where my great-aunt had her wedding party. Up until the minute it was bulldozed it was popular. Someone started to build flats on the land but it has never been finished so it looks like a wreckage.

Now, for the Oddfellows Arms. This was my local when I first came home, another of my grandfather's haunts. It was a hotbed of characters. I sat in a corner one night. The next time I went in, I took the same corner with my crossword and was summoned to the bar by a right bunch. I blogged it at the time. It's where I met the Vanquisher (who was tending bar at the time). From the friendship I struck up with Rob came the cascade of friends I have around here.

My mate Lauren, who again I met through the Oddies, should be running the place. We would all be in there; all six degrees of separation.

Just for your edification, the "Oddfellows" institute was a local concept. It was essentially the working man's masons. It was a bunch of like-minded, class-restricted folk who pitched in to help each other out in times of need. It was probably formed by the poverty of the mining community or the wars. Whatever the formation date was, it has persisted. It persisted in the Oddies until the dim day the doors closed in December.

David Cameron, where is the "Big Society" when you wipe out local business and community spirit? I was once called a narcosyndicalist. I think I am.

There used to be four pubs in this town. We're down to one wine bar and a working man's club. Someone needs to be shot. And the government wonder why people buy their drinks from supermarkets. There is nowhere left.

<shakes head />

Please tell me I'm still dreaming. In fact, pinch me. The headlines today are doing my bonce in.

Before I start I am only awake because I have God awful toothache. It makes me want to just go and get all the bastards pulled out as a precautionary measure. Anyway...

I'm in deep do-do, again. My natural caring, loving self has offended someone. You probably know the someone. Some people just don't get the concept of platonic love. My girly view of the world is that we would all be a lot safer and better off if we loved our fellow beings.

And as if to back up my point, Fawazia Koofi is on Al Beeb. A woman who knows her onions. She has more bollocks than most men I know. She is the child of a sixth wife of her father in Afghanistan and will be running for presidency there next year. Astonishing strength. Think I need to buy her book.

Anyway, apologies to the one who eludes me. My support of you will never change, and you damn well know it.

I feel like I am always apologizing for not updating the trusty old bloggo. Truth be told, I've been having a bit of a blast with Kat. I'm not sure she has had quite the blast. She's done her two week sentence chez moi and I moved her back to Farnworth today. I'm going to miss her like nothing on earth. We have a strange relationship. We make a great team but the age and preference thing makes it a tad awkward. I am not the easiest guy to live with so I can understand her wanting her distance. I am minded of an old adage: "Women, can't live with them and can't shoot them."

In other news I have accepted my voluntary redundancy. It looks like I finish on March 9th so it's T-25. I have three plans. The obvious is to do the MA in journalism that I wanted to do last year. The second is to set up a company to do independent metrology analysis. The third is to set up the Waaart's company. I'm thinking I can do all three simultaneously. And while I'm doing that, I can still apply for boring IT jobs.

However before I embark on my new life I am taking a vacation. Where is up for grabs. I'll certainly spend a few days with my good old mate Louis in France. After that, I don't know. Tokyo was on the cards but I'm having second thoughts about that for reasons I really don't want to go into.

Ever since I got my redundancy quote, I have been singing "Grand Cayman is great" to myself, but there is really no excuse for spending so much money on a couple of weeks. Ironically I got a spam email yesterday that offered me a job working there. Unless I win the lottery, it looks like I will never see Grand Cayman. Given I never buy lottery tickets, it's a grim outlook on that one.

Still, I will have enough money to go on vacation, do my MA, pay off my car and credit card and live for a year or so, so all is not too shabby.

It has been a mad month or so. At the start of January I ended up in hospital a couple of times due to a reaction to some medication that I was taking. Effectively it made me hallucinate. The first time I was there the locum idiot doctor examined me, declared nothing wrong with me, and sent me home. There is obviously nothing wrong with someone who has been in la-la land for twelve hours (sic). I went straight my GP's and saw the marvelous Dr J. She advised that I cut down on the medication and see how that went. I did.

A week later I was in hospital again having lost 12 hours of my life where I could remember the smallest detail of what I thought was happening. It was auditory, visual, olfactory, tactile hell. I saw four consultants within four hours. Eventually they pulled out the BMA drug dictionary and spotted that something like 1 in 100,000 people reacted with hallucinations to the drug that I was taking and yanked me off it quick style.

When I spoke to my GP about it, she was mortified. She has been in practice for about 15 years and had never seen anyone react so badly. So she gave me something a little more benign.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up last Thursday morning having spent the night in bed asleep but tripping my proverbials off. I was scheduled to be in Leeds but was wary of driving. It is a good job I didn't go because about an hour after I awoke, I slipped into mad-mode again. It lasted from 08:00-16:15 and every moment of it was living hell. I have never been so scared in my life. To think you know what is going on around you when it quite patently isn't but not be able to snap out of it is disturbing. The hallucinations I had last week were so dark that I am not willing to share them with anyone. I know this has put a couple of peoples' nose out of joint because they perceive it as me being too secretive. I also know that I was obnoxious when pressed on the issue; one, I didn't want to explain the awful vision and two, it was for their own peace of mind that I didn't. Some things are best kept between you and your maker. Given I was exhausted from the experience, I didn't want to interact with anyone at all so shut up shop. People who don't know me well enough would take that as me being angry with them. I do appreciate the concern but when I ask to be left alone for 24 hours, I mean I need to be left alone for 24 hours. Any impinging on that serenity constitutes an assault, especially when I don't know whether the frickin' black wigglies will appear again or not. Better not to be on the phone with me when I'm bouncing off clouds -- I cannot guarantee lucidity or civility.

Suffice to say there has been another juggling of drugs and so far, touch wood, I have been good. There has only been one "solution" drug that has worked but it knocks you sideways for a while. I took it for a few weeks. It was like a slow reboot of the brain. The problem with it is that it is addictive so the doc (understandably) didn't want me on it too long.

Thankfully I have had none of the warning signs of an impending flip-out for nearly a week now so normal service is hopefully resumed. At this point I have to commend Time to Change for their efforts. If you have a few quid/bucks throw it their way.

In other less depressing news Kat moved in on Monday for a couple of weeks. It is fair to say that I'm loving it albeit that I am obliged to entertain her all her waking hours. Lord knows what she is going to do tomorrow when I am at work. As a counterpoint to my being Wigwam's sole personal dancing bear, man, have we eaten well. I'd say I love her to bits but she'd bite my head off and probably roast it with seaweed and peppers. <ducks /> The woman gets away with murder with me. You know the old team-building ice-breaker "Who in this room would you ask to move the body?", well you have your answer.

It's like when all the buses (I nearly typo'd nurses not buses there) come at once (oh God, did I really write that). Sack the script writer.

In other news, I have the pleasure of the Kat as a guest for a couple of weeks as of Monday, possibly followed by a less temporary mad woman. Alles ist gut.

This is what I am gladly putting up with at the moment, and loving it, just as a stabilizer from the previous post:

I feel like a teenager. But I couldn't eat a full one.

I'm feeling contrary today. I get like this whenever I get a cold -- snotty would be too much of a pun for me to stomach.

I just watched the 1 o'clock news. There were a couple of things that *really* narked me.

The first one was Ian Hislop testifying at the Levinson Inquiry. Murdoch may be a t**t of the first order but smart-arse jocular commentary given as evidence will not help anyone. Yes Ian, we know you're a clever guy. What you are not is the messiah. I'll award that round to Paul Merton.

The second was a report on the grading of schools. Regardless of the content, the footage that accompanied it was infuriating. Kids sat in exam halls with calculators. What the hell is up with that? It is no wonder that exam results improve year on year. It will not be long before you earn your degree by Google.

Finally, Scotland, not content by ruling the UK from Westminster, having their own devolved parliament yet a sweet deal on public money, if you want complete devolution/severance from the UK, just go ahead and do it. Adopt the Euro and join the ever-growing list of f*еdcountries.com.

Yes, I'm in a bad mood. I'm allowed one every now and again, especially when I'm expectorating gallons of phlegm a second.

I find myself apologizing again for lack of updates. Facebook seems to be my MO at the moment.

I thought I would bob on here to let you know that I'm a bit discombobulated (which, incidentally, was 5D in a recent crossword). Someone from my very distant past has appeared on the horizon and I have completely fallen for her. As soon as my France Telecom shares have been sold, I'm off to my old stomping ground of Middlesbrough.

I feel like a schoolkid again -- not used to "courting".

In other news, I'm off to France again soon. I've not decided on a date yet, but I will be in Valenciennes with Kat soon to see Louis.

'Tis all. Again I promise I will try to write something vaguely interesting soon.

Apparently it is nearly Xmas...

Not sure how festive I feel just yet.

There is talk of me and a certain Waaart going to Sin on Xmas Eve. I'm not too sure whether that is going to happen or not.

In the meantime I'll be the grumpy guy in the corner.

And dream of sheep

It's well late but I'm still awake. Kate Bush's new CD has rocked my little world and I cannot get off track one. If you have a decent set of headphones, plug them in and listen to "Snowflake". It is the stuff that makes your knees tremble.

"I'll find you" hits like a hammer. Three days ago, I was all Siouxsie and the Banshees. Kate Bush has scuppered that one. It is truly the most sedentary piece of music you will ever hear.

'Tis all. It is so exquisite I am lost for words.

Mr and Mrs Mo moved in a few weeks ago. I laced the place with poison. Their response was to tap-dance around the living room with top-hats and elaborate Northern canes. My response to their response to their response is quite simple: "You start fixing shit around here so more of your mousy nonsense cannot get in you can stay, as long all of you are neutered." I think that's a reasonable response, don't you? (Hell, I would never keep my side of the bargain but they don't know that). Thus far, all I have got is a squeak from the corner.

First up, I have just bravely and singly done battle with what was probably a day old beast. I chased it onto the glue pad armed only with a torch, so there it now in situe. Its siblings look like foul little eels, jet back and still wet. It is the single most disgusting thing you have ever seen (re: late great Peter Cook, The Frog and Peach). It could be that there are two or more.

We noticed yesterday/last week that the poison was probably inappopriately positioned. Bec repositioned it to the back of the sofa where it has obviously been a great hit. When we got up this morning the cheeky buggers had moved it to about 2 feet of the fridge. E1 was shocked. E2 was nonplussed. I screamed for assistance: "The bloody thing is so immune to the blue grains of death that it wants a bloody second helping." Honestly.

At the moment I am hearing loud squeaks to my left every few minutes. These are closly followed by high pitched screams from me. The neighbors might have called the police, I don't know. If I die tonight, you can pretty much dispense wondering why. I am assuming that there is one squeak per slimey black sack of disease. By that token we are now on eight but one has been "retired". I think we bagged lard-arse early this week. He was holed up with an golden nose stud. God, they are ugly and putrid. They also clamber around the place like they have hooves. Two of the smallest that I have seen have bodies the width about half that of a pencil and as long as a usb connector. How many more synonyms could I possibly come up? Humor me and hit the Thesaurus and you'll still be reading at the weekend, which I would not advise, but I am not God so I won't. Or am I?

Prepare to have said hello the world, meeses, and then to quietly and politely f*** off back from whence thy came.

I am doubling the defense budget as result of this invasion. There will now be a full £30 allocated next year, subject to not having to bite into any contingency we have this year. Greece, Italy, Portugal, Ireland, Spain -- don't even think about doing the same.

Toodles and, once again, it has been nearly a month since I bitched about something. I vow to scream every time I either see one of these mice or when I've bagged one for the greater good.

I feel compelled to let you all know of the horrors that have befallen me over the last few days. They are numerous.

The first is that I have a mouse. The thing is jet black and has an arse the size of a small football stadium. I have laced the house with poison but it appears unattracted to said tasty yet lethal manna.

The second is that I bucked trends by going out with my old drummer, Mr Gilman on Saturday to attend something called Sin City, a retro 80s night where I found my legs again and actually danced. Unfortunately my legs failed me while walking back to Piccadilly Station. John and I were, quite frankly, utterly lost. Within two minutes, we had been approached by two lasses offering "services". I wanted to run but the legs are not quite that good yet. My gut instinct in these situations is to throw money at them and tell them to go home, pour a nice glass of wine, get in the bath and forget their predilection for anonymous sex for cash, just for one night. Thankfully John dealt with them with a gentle "No thank you". I came home and had to bathe. It's quite strange that in any other circumstance, I would never have pegged them as being hookers. 'Tis a brutal world that they live in and my heart went out to them. But that's just me; show me a cute lass in trouble and I fold. Thankfully I didn't on this occasion.

There's other gubbins going on but it's not appropriate for me to elaborate, so I'll leave you at two.

The guys in Leeds need pies so I am off over there tomorrow. Shout if you need a chunky steak pie or a custard.

Well, look at that. It's been damned near a month since I was last on here. I have excuses but I'll not go into too many details.

Today has been horrendous. From my Facebook status:

"Waxing [my legs] would have been less painful than being beaten by goals by a bloke who sounds like a type of pasta, a bloke who sounds like a type of Seat car, a bloke who sounds like an insurance company and a bloke who sounds like a cockney precious metal."

I am not accustomed to being battered 6-1 by the blue half of the city. If I had a gas oven, I would have had my head in it by about 80 minutes. As it happens I have an electric one. By the time full-time came around, I was quite willing to try sticking my head in that, just in case I missed a physics lesson that was pertinent to these circumstances.

On the upside of down, I have been through some serious druggage over the last few weeks which has rendered me either asleep or too dopey to think. I started off on some mood stabilizers (nothing to do with the football) which were the equivalent of a 'sync; sync; halt' followed by a slow boot up. They blasted me from here to outer space and back. By the time I had finished my course of benzodiazipines, I was a jittering wreck. These have now been replaced with beta-blockers which are God's own creation. I have never felt so calm and surprisingly, my legs appear to have started working again. I'll not be playing for Utd any time soon but there is a marked improvement. The doc is baffled about the legs.

While all this has been happening, her Katness has moved house from the People's Republic of Red Salford back to Farnworth. This is slightly closer to Wigwam but still not close enough. Each night, at silly o'clock, she texts me telling me she is missing me. She's even asked me when we are getting married, bless. I fully intend descending on her new house next weekend, probably for the whole of the weekend.

Anyway, I have some football grieving to be done and some shirts to be ironed before the very last episode of Spooks is aired, so I must love you and leave you. I promise to be more diligent in updating you on the mundane nothing that is my joyful existence. Before I do, a plea: please do not try to outbid me on ebay for Gaddafi's wardrobe -- that is all mine.

It appears that I am rubbish at making decisions. Where else would I whinge other than here?

It has been an awful day. I made it down to Bristol last night and ate a hearty meal. This morning I awoke at 02:30 and then never got back to sleep, instead preferring to have a tactical vomit every hour or so. The last time I was so ill in a hotel was in Chicago -- Nski sent me some flowers -- bless. This time I have no-one to send me flowers.

I'm having Macbook problems too. While I'm typing the volume keeps going up/down/off depending on which keys I hit (and they are not the function keys). A google has not helped me at all. Any ideas? This started a while ago but I've still not managed to work out what the hell is going on. Kat has something similar going on with her Macbook too -- her bnm,. keys are not working at all.

Anyway, I am going to have to eat something so I'm off to grab a sandwich. Let us hope that the stomach issue disappears.

Tomorrow, I have to attend the funeral of an old friend of mine. I say old, but I mean he was 44. Other things have been happening too but I am at a loss as to how to describe them.

With my tenth anniversary of bloggage under my belt, I have decided that this will be the 'Last Post' (Cue bugle).

In a semi-humorous send-off, please accept this as my little gift to you all. BNL always made me smile.

Take care of yourselves and have one for me, whatever "one" is.

I'm going to start off with something that is far more important than the second part of this post.

I've spent hours watching the 9/11 memorial service from both Ground Zero and from Grosvenor Square (or Little America as it is known). There's a little dig that us Brits have at our cousins every now and again -- you're allowed grief and sentimentality...okay stop it now, you're not American. Today we can toss that one right aside. To say the memorial is touching is an understatement on a biblical scale. The reading of the names brought a tear to my eye. And the reflection pool is possibly the most beautiful design I have ever seen. If I ever make it back to NYC, it will be top of my things to go and visit.

I went to the WTC in 1994 and was awe-struck at the size. I remember it well because I dropped a rookie bollock in a meeting with a high-ranking bank official. People say the City brings out some very smartly and some very eccentrically dressed executives. The WTC blew it away. Everyone was smarter than smart. I felt like the working class lad that I am, in my cheap suit and even cheaper shoes.

The lady I met with at the bank was amazing. She was sharp-dressed, wonderfully quaffed 30-something who was VP of the bank (I think it was Morgan Stanley) and had a razor-like mind. For fun, she had been trying to crack the encryption on our software. She asked me about it quite openly. It was one of her interests and it was the first time she had failed. Obviously I couldn't tell her how it worked for professional reasons but I did give her a sneaky, albeit very vague, hint while the salesman was in the restroom. She beamed at me. She emailed me a week later -- job done. We spoke for quite a while after that.

At the time I had no idea what I was walking into. I got up in a nasty motel in Trenton, NJ knowing only that I needed to be suited and booted to go to a bank. We took the rattler commuter train into NYC and suddenly I was faced with this gob-smacking entrance and spent ages in a lift getting to the plushest suite you have ever seen. It was a world I had never seen before.

In some ways I am glad I got to go there. In others it probably makes its destruction and the associated loss of life even more horrendous -- you can't help but ask whether any of the people you met/passed/greeted were among the victims.

Watching the footage on that morning in 2001, I remember every move I made for the next few days. And then I remember catching one of the first flights after the no-fly days to DC, much to the consternation of Nski. By that time the Reserve Guards were swarming all over anyone who wasn't a US citizen. The change was palpable. No flashing your driver's license anymore.

I've recently watched Flight 93 and Sky's The Path to 9/11. Initially I was disgusted by the thought but, to be fair, they were both very well done and extremely evocative. Anyone who is old enough must still think about 9/11 on a daily basis.

I think what I'm trying to say is that day fundamentally changed a lot. It certainly changed me. My tree-hugging, bed-wetting liberal credentials evaporated. Watching these memorials has reinforced my views.

It's trite, but I still consider myself half American and today I am 100% American.

--

On a much less important note, I've been a bit off color for the last 3-4 days. I rang the incomparable Dr Jones on Wednesday morning who instructed me to get back from Bristol and told me to pick up a prescription she had left at the local chemist for me. I did. The first night I slept 13 hours. The second I slept 12 hours (I had an appointment to go see her the following day). After the consultation on Friday I got some different drugs. So Friday I snoozed all day and then slept and sweated for 14 hours. Last night, while interrupted, another 13. Tomorrow I have to get to Bristol and am stressed about it. Remind me not to forget my meds.

Bec, bless her, doesn't want me to go. The girl worries. If I had a choice I'd sooner be sat at home being nursed and waited on hand and foot by Bec, but deeds must. All I can say is that if I drop dead while traveling, at least she'll have the money for a deposit on a house, and someone at work will have a terrible conscience to live with.

I'll try to be a bit more diligent blogging over the next few days.

All I want to do is curl up with a book. Malheuresement, it's not happening -- a curry is de rigeur.

I had an absolutely fabulous night last night with my old homeys, John Gilman, Lisa and Diane Farley. I felt positively young until the alarm clock went off at 05:30 this morning. A day of scratching my head, wondering what I am doing in Brizzle followed. I guarantee I will be in bed by 22:00. Buggered.com does not even cover it.

You'll not be interested but my scanner at home was not playing ball last night. John and Lisa brought all sorts of photos from when we were all young. I planned on scanning them but the HP gremlins decided they were feeling antsy.

Speaking of HP, I have some work to do with HP containers. I am baffled. No big surprise there really.

One last thing before I go meet my compadres -- having an acute ear is not the blessing you might think it is. I am sat listening to a very high pitched whine from the modem in my hotel room. It is going to drive me nuts.

Any suggestions on the curry?

There may be a boat-load of 80s photos appearing here shortly. You might see pictures of me when I was cool.

Well, another game of two halves. I've had the Kat around for a couple of days. As usual, she was amazingly fun. I demand that someone clone her and move her in with me, but alter her tendencies away from being Libyan.

This morning we had to make it down to my grandmother's house to pick up some things, the most notable of which is a writing bureau that was purchased for my mother when she was at grammar school. Between the two of us, we managed to get it downstairs and into my car. Seeing I was feeling macho, I carried my golf clubs out too.

Bec, Furlong and I have installed the bureau in the front room. I love it. When the light is better and we've populated it, I will take a picture. It is gorgeous.

The downside of this, and two days of having people around, is that the back room is absolutely stacked full of stuff. It looks like we have taken the contents of everyone's wardrobes, golf clubs, a music shop, a computer shop, a second-hand furniture shop and a greasy spoon cafe and just thrown them around à la Jackson Pollock. Tomorrow night is going to be hard work.

It was truly awful walking into the house again. I know I have to do it at least twice more. Once to pick up some pots and pans, and once to move the bed. The house is a shell and it is heart-breaking to see 85 years worth of life boxed and bagged.

The final goodbye is on Wednesday. It is very sad that the internment of her ashes will be attended by only Mater, Pater and I. Kat has said she will try to make it too, bless her. She improves my mood more than anyone I know. We may bicker and bitch like a married couple, but I wouldn't have it any other way. She is gold-dust. I'm not sure what I would do without her and Bec at the moment.

Well, I have Die Führer's chair.

A permanent reminder that she's left us for good. I've just had a conversation with Mater about her. We found a doodle on a piece of paper on her table that was a woman in a chair with her head cocked slightly to one side and her arms crossed. Exactly the same way that we found her. Gutting. She was a canny old bugger. She used to annoy me by being an expert in everything, thanks to t'bloke on t'radio. Now I really miss being told how stuff works, albeit batshit.

On the positive side, Bec and Furlong will have a bigger seat to sit on because that, right there, is the captain's chair. Just imagine how much slobbing I can do in that recliner. I fear I may never leave the house again.

Today I am going to inherit a chair. This may seem like a little nothing but, to me, it's a big deal. When Die Führer bought her last suite, she purposely bought a reclining chair for my use. The good Mr Furlong and I wrestled with the two-seater sofa last night, to get it into the dining room (where, incidentally, it looks pretty good) so there is room for the new "captain's chair".

It will deplete the capacity of the front room by one but what the hell. It's not like I do a great deal of 'entertaining'. Having the dining room with a sofa means Bec can do her own thing when she wants. If I wire up the Linux box in there, she has her own interwebz connection/DVD player too.

In Die Führer's words, "alles gut".

In other news, I should be seeing the marvel that is Bob Walls tonight. And Friday will see Kat here, which always cheers me up.

'Tis all. I need to get down to Vegas. Given the rain/baldness ratio, the flat cap will be deployed. I'm so Wigwam it hurts.

On Friday I was feeling deeply miserable. In a fit of self-loathing, I booked next week off because there is not much happening at work and I fancied doing a Leaving Las Vegas somewhere remote. Unfortunately it isn't going to happen. So having filled in all the relevant forms, set up my out-of-office and generally advertized the fact that I will not be there next week, I am now going to be sat in Wigwam.

The Beckernator is away until Monday with her beau, so I'm rattling around doing bugger-all squared. Thank God for the Universal channel and FX. I am on a Law & Order marathon today. Tomorrow it's the Charity Shield so I should be okay. Gemma has offered to come around at some point, which will amuse me no end. Monday, I have some admin things to do. After that there is nothing planned. I guess there will be a lot of time for mindless TV and a bit of writing.

Happy days.

I was meant to be staying home and having a quiet one last night, but the prospect of being amused by Bob Walls and getting some revenge on the pool table tempted me out. Too damned entertaining.

Favorite line thus far: "I'm so punk I shit safety pins."

In other news, I smuggled some pies from Wigwam over to Leeds today. I fear I may have set a precedent -- given the response the lads had to them, I am going to be battered into bringing more, probably on a weekly basis. I am my own worst enemy.

Oh, and I just went to call Die Frau Führer, out of habit. Talk about a sinking feeling.

Apologies for the silence. Events have rather overtaken me this week. After Sunday's horrendous news, I have been left reeling a little. I'm not quite sure whether I have fully absorbed the fact that the Führer has gone. It feels a cold world without her.

I'm not good at grief. Most people mope. I let loose. The reminder of your own mortality and the inability to cope with losing someone you love so much makes me want to make the most of what time I have left.

To that end I went out with my mate Lauren last night, just for a couple of hours. We met up with one of her mates. Can I give it a wow? I think so.

I have a rule. The first ten minutes of meeting someone will literally define my view on them, be that good or bad. It took less than two minutes for me to be utterly, utterly in love with this girl. I must have looked like a moonbat all evening; I literally could not take my eyes off of her. [Gemma, if you read this, it's all a work of fiction aimed at pleasing the friends who love to live vicariously through me, so I exaggerate.] I have pictures which I will duly place on Facebook and, once the Beckernator has surfaced with my laptop, on here. She sat studying the music on my iPhone and whooped with glee at the amount of eighties stuff on there, then proceeded to tell me she was marrying me for my musical taste. [Easy there, tiger -- Ed]. With all the wit of Edwina Curry I hurriedly pointed out that my track record on marriage was not exactly sterling. [Idiot -- Ed].

Update: The pics are up on Facebook but I chose this one to publish Bob Walls.

Let us just leave that one as a massive wow. And she's not Libyan (for once). Wow.

Back to reality. Die Frau Führer's funeral is set for Tuesday. I have the daunting dilemma of whether to go and see her in the Chapel of Rest or not. In my experience people seldom look like they did so you are visiting a shell. The smell of formaldehyde knocks me sick, too. I think I would be too emotional and nauseous if I went. Kat did offer to come with me but I'm afraid I will have to say my goodbyes on Tuesday. We'll see.

I suspect you are going to hear a lot about the Führer over the coming weeks as I try to come to terms with the loss of one of my best mates. 4'10" of utter attitude has left the building. On a positive note, Gemma has entered the building and she is a bit taller but with the same level of attitude.

Equilibrium is restored.

Die Frau Führer reunited with Richard Whitely...

My grandmother passed away sometime during last night. She died in her sleep, aged 85. She looked very peaceful.

I got a call from my mother's mobile at about 12:45 asking whether I had picked up my grandmother to take her for Sunday lunch. I was quite shocked because I didn't remember saying that I would. Anyway, I said I'd go get her anyway. Mater responded that the reason for asking was that she could get no answer at her door. I only live a mile away and I have keys in case of emergency so I drove up there. The blinds were closed. My heart sank.

Sure enough, we found her in bed, seemingly asleep, but quite obviously dead. From her temperature and the color of her lips, she had been dead for at least a few hours. My mother is now an orphan.

The ambulance team, the policeman and the funeral directors were all marvelous.

Let me list what she has done for me, to give you some idea of what a fantastic woman she was. She could be awkward and obtuse but can't we all (I got that streak from her). I used to mercilessly tease her about her Germanic origins, hence the Über Gruppenführer references. Anyway, this is by no means an extensive list of her kindness:

-- she was the only member of my family to come and visit me during the years I was in the US.

-- when I arrived back from the US with my arse in rags, £30 to my name, she put a roof over my head, bought me a laptop, got an internet connection to her home and paid for everything for me.

-- as I was breaking down during the divorce from Nski, I was living in Leeds alone. When I hit rock bottom, it was she who made the arrangements for my hospitalization. When I came out of hospital, she moved me back into her house and nursed me back to health over months. See missing archives -- that is how long she worked on me.

-- when she got the compensation payout for miners' deaths, she gave me £5000 of it.

-- when I was in hospital last year, she got two buses each way from her house to the hospital to see me and bring me goodies every day, and to make sure they were looking after me to her satisfaction.

-- more recently, she has helped me out of a couple of short term cash problems.

We were more like friends than grandparent/grandson. We laughed together. We were outraged together. She loved the fact that I am the only member of her family in England who liked her cooking (old-school Austrian/German). I loved the fact that she loved making it and would quite happily eat as much as she could throw at me. We'd do daft things like drive to Southport, just because. I built her a pond, which she adored, while she was in Österreich one year (or "invading Poland" as I used to refer to it) and you have never seen a happier face. We were really, really close friends.

I have the task of notifying the family in Austria in broken German. I have only managed to get hold of one by phone.

I'm still numb. I cried for a couple of minutes when we first discovered her but then realized I had to take over and start doing things while my mother composed herself. This will hit me like a truck when it sinks in.

I can remember how to do a decent schnitzel. I can't remember how to make *that* cake. I had the recipe written down in America which was meant to be sent over along with other things but none of them ever turned up, so I am going to have to experiment. I'm wondering whether I blogged it at the time of writing.

And then there's a list of all the things you should have done, should have said...that will be one long arsed list.

I can't believe I will never hear that Germanic cackle again, that I have no rock to fall back on, that I will never be able to chastise her for speaking freaky-deaky foreign on the phone.

I hope she's at peace. She survived a lot, suffered a lot. She deserves peace.

I am too tired to go off on one so I will just bullet point what has been on my mind:

-- Greece, you run your finances worse than I do mine, which is a bit special. I told you aligning your fiscal policy with others was a beyond stupid move over 10 years ago -- once again, I am right. Let the meltdown commence.

-- Murdoch(s), wow. That was some breathtaking lying. Feigning being a senile old geriatric will not save your UK interests (and I'm not just talking about Rupert).

-- Brooks, wow. Your mop of red hair completely distracted me from listening to you. As Mater intimated on the phone, I am too soft with women and I should start to suspect that they are always up to something. She thinks that if you give me a pretty face, I cave. Not so. I was just dazzled by the sheer volume of lockage. What I did hear, though, sounded plausible and genuine. I guess Mater is right.

-- NASA, unlucky. It may be phenomenally expensive to run, but the Space Shuttle programme has captivated me for years. Maybe if the EU decided to bail on Greece and contribute, we might actually be able to continue it. Either that or feed the 10 million Cape Horn people who are starving.

-- Microsoft = pants. Citrix = worse_than_pants. Microsoft + Citrix = BSOD && complete_sloblock.

-- Darlington on Monday. Hmmm.

-- Stress levels are at an all time high. I am seriously considering doing a Reggie Perin on Llandudno beach (must remember to pack degree certificate in a waterproof bag or stash it somewhere no-one will look).

'Tis all. As I said, tired.

I just called Die Frau Führer. She said something in freaky-deaky Deutsche. I responded "Gutten nicht." Without wanting to insult you, I meant to say "Goodnight" but it came out as "Good not."

Great for 'Allo Allo but rubbish for real life.

Shoot me now.

Kenny: "Hiya, I'm ringing about the kitchen stuff that you put on freelove.com on behalf of a friend of mine."

Callee: "Who are you?"

Kenny: "You put an ad on freelove for some kitchen equipment and my friend is interested."

Callee: "Who are you?"

Kenny: "I've obviously got the wrong number. Sorry."

Bec: "You're an idiot: It's called prelove."

Spangles and Jen:

I was right, was I not? The hacking scandal has hit biblical proportions. To be honest I haven't spent every second of every day consuming the media frenzy but I have kept an eye/ear on it. It is the proverbial dawning of the age of Aquarius. I predict the sale of the Times and Sunday Times within the month. And if Murdoch is wise, he would be wise to divest his shares in BSkyB.

The interesting part of all this will be whether similar practices have been deployed in the US. If they have woe betide him. US law is a lot more lax in terms of proof of culpability than English law (and News International is based in the US) so there will be merry hell. Never mess with the feds. Wire-tapping? Ouch. Regardless of the civil lawsuits that will be filed in droves (most of them speculative), the feds will have him for breakfast, dinner and tea. I'm not sure what the statutory sentence is for wire-tapping but I'm pretty darned sure that it's not a smack on the back of the head and a milkshake.

--

In other news, Spangles and I hosted a dinner party on Thursday night. I have included me, only because I live here. Spangles did the catering. Lordy, did she do a good job. The wild mushroom tartlettes were amazing. The penne pasta with pesto, mint, pepper, herbs and broccoli were lovely. But there is no superlative to describe this:

That is what you know as a ginger-crisp cherry cheesecake, concocted from scratch, but what I call heaven. I have no idea how she managed to come up with this, but it is a dinner party killer. No-one spoke during desert. We were all Scooby-doo shoveling it down with our arms in a blur. Then there were a few moments of wow as we all got our heads around what an amazing experience we had just had. It was followed by laughter as we all realized no-one had said a word for ten minutes.

--

In other, other news, Spangles and I wasted the whole day yesterday trying to offload some stuff with no success at all. Woe is us. It's going to be a frugal week or so. If I am quiet, it's because I'm either working, at the hospital, deeply depressed or doing a Brian Wilson. Bloody internet fraudsters should be shot.

'Tis all.

I think today may be a wibble day in terms of the press. This is big.

I really feel for Gordon Brown. Whoever it is who is interviewing him is an insensitive scumbag.

Now I need to work.

Here ya go.

When she says Kenny, she is quite obviously not talking about me. It's way too complimentary. Bless you mi'lass and I will be with you on Friday.

Tell me you're not in love with the silly bugger.