Driving back to London yesterday we were faced with a moment straight out of the League of Gentlemen as we passed an old dear on his electric mobility wagon chugging his way down the B3151 followed by a large quantity of very slow trucks and cars looking a little bit upset. I’m annoyed that I didn’t have any battery left in my camera by this point to take amusing photographs. The world conspires to fart in my face once more. Back home to a strange smell in the flat. TJ is sure it’s coming from the toilet, I’m sure it’s coming from the kitchen, but hey. Just had my work laptop upgraded to 2gig ram. It’s a bit faster and shinier. Woo! I want to live in a tent in Glastonbury, I have decided. Possibly not until I’m a bit older, but one day I will. Possibly not in a tent either, but hey, a flat’ll do Failed to find sensibly priced boji stones for Dom to sneer at so didn’t buy any. Did however buy a small patch of leather from some very old women in a shop. Again, straight from League of Gentlemen, they pottered around, not quite being able to hear each other. Gareth wandered upstairs for a browse, which caused quite a stir as three of them asked each other confusedly if the fourth had gone upstairs, oblivious to my repeated mentioning that Gareth had gone upstairs. Eventually Gareth came back down just as they were selecting someone to go up and investigate, to be told “you’re not allowed up there without assistance, but you didn’t know, it’s alright” by one of them. “You want some leather? Have a look through this bucket, I’ll cut you off a bit if it’s all too big” “He wants what? Some leather? All very well and good but he’ll have to wait for this lady to pay...” The ringleader wanders off and has the customer explain to her how to use the card machine amidst exclamations of “It’s connecting!” and "It says “Authorised!” and “what way up does it go in, dear?” Eventually secured the aforementioned leather and wandered off. Which amused everyone else. We went to the crappiest “spiritual festival” thing ever. Wandered into a room filled with the smell of incense and old men, instantly recognising it as the amazingly naff place we’d looked at pictures of unicorns one year. We wandered amongst psychic tarot readers and stone sellers to find a woman clutching a dagger and a joss stick in one hand, “cleansing” a woman’s aura by making wooshing noises as she cut through the air near her. We wandered out again, a bit bemused and regretting having spent £3 on a pile of poo. Dom noticed a passage downstairs so we toodled down and found a very strange man claiming to be a psychic artist. He was drawing something from some poor Polish woman’s brain that had her bemused as much as us. This person (Paul, apparently) was a great leader and someone who had been known to the victim before he died. Mr Psychic could also sense the letters C, K, L and Q in a name that mentioned something to the poor woman. Yes, he was a bit crap. Even *I* know there’s not that many words in Polish with a “Q” in them... His next victim was another poor woman. “I sense patterns. Do you work with patterns?” “Well, I work on the computer, I guess that could be called patterns” “I see this person. They have a pen” “OMFG! I use a wacom tablet at work!!11” “I sense you’re on a tightrope, that you’re doing a good job of balancing. Things have been hard for you but are getting better...” Blah blah crap. Victim number 3 was amusingly Dom. Who knew a man/woman thing who wore a hat. He’d obviously twigged we were fags as he started giving it this “I sense people don’t really understand you for who you really are” etc. I think the pic was Florence Nightingale. Dom disagrees. Apparently it’s someone with long fingers and the properties of both a man and a woman. Hur. We both agree that Mr Psychic was rubbish tho. “I’m not sure why he’s wearing a hat?” Maybe it was your awful drawing talents? Eating a pi