The Last Waltzer

The Brockwell Park Country Fair came to our part of London this weekend, bringing with it crowds of 120,000 people (we spotted one very minor celeb: Alex Zane from Popworld); some owls (mysteriously difficult to find); large quantities of curried goat; and a posse of slack-jawed troglodytes. Said troglodytes were operating the fairground rides. Clutching £20 pocket money that her dad had just given her, Buffy ran excitedly around looking for a ride to go on. 'Let's go on the waltzers,' I suggested. It seemed like a good idea.


It was all to end in tears

It was fun at first. Round and round we span, the ride attendants, who looked like they'd escaped from The Hills Have Eyes made us spin faster... and faster. Suddenly, it was all going too fast. I was sure we were going to die. I gripped the not-exactly-secure bar while Buffy - who had moments before been proclaiming how much fun this was - cried out that she wanted it to stop. My poor girlfriend's head was pinned back by the force of the waltzer and she couldn't move her neck. I was too busy trying not to die to help her. It finally, mercifully, stopped and we staggered off, feeling like we'd just consumed vast quantities of mind-bending drugs.

Now, 24 hours later, Buffy is not at all well: she's suffering from whiplash, has a sore neck and back and can't breathe properly. I'm considering going to InjuryLawyers4U.



Here's the latest picture of Ellie, who's piling on the ounces and doing really well. Earlier this week, she peed all over me. A truly bonding experience.



Buffy is not the only poorly creature in our flat. Syd, our ancient rat, is on her last legs. And Freckles, our pet leopard, has turned to the fags for comfort. I have photographic evidence of this, but will save it. In the meantime, here's a picture of him snacking on a Rolo. Our last one.