I got home some twenty minutes ago. I found the cats ravenous and thirsty, but otherwise both they and my place look to be in order so I guess my nephew's done a good job of taking care of them. I found a note to say that he'd taken Pirates Of The Caribbean and I, Claudius home with him to share with his little brother and his mum, and he's added the phrase "I've put the keys in the letterbox" as a postscriptum. This last sentence made me laugh uproariously: the key to said letterbox is among them, which is why I had asked him to leave them on the table for me to find.

I had a rather uneventful journey home, except for one thing: the lady at the check-in counter was a total Nazi and she made me give up my beautiful L. K. Bennett shoebox, although I should probably be grateful she let me keep my L. K. Bennett bag and shoes -- all because my hand luggage was 28 grams over the 5 kilo limit. It was only later, when I was in the departure lounge still reeling from the shock, that I realised that if I'd taken out the 2 cans of Bisto I carried for a friend and switched them over to my suitcase, I would probably have been allowed to bring the box. It was small consolation to me that several of the other ground stewards on duty there oooh-ed and aaaaah-ed over my shoes, now revealed in all their glory, in kind sympathy.



Oh, and before I forget: did I mention we saw Alan Rickman, in the flesh, in London 48 hours ago?