Geoff Caple

Your worst nightmare. You go to a party and the other bloke is wearing the same top as you are.

Sometimes I’m sorely tempted to join in the hullabaloo, and say nasty things about our incompetent government. Then I look at wagtails happily strutting about the garden, blissfully unaware of all the madness. It must be nice, being a wagtail

Peddling like buggery on the wife’s torture machine, desperately trying to keep time with Mama Mia, Dancing Queen and Super Trooper. If I have a heart attack it’ll be ABBA’s fault. I never did like them

Rupert the Bear just turned 106. Britain has always had an affection for bears. Rupert, Winnie the Pooh and Paddington. A little Honey, a marmalade sandwich and a nice day out. Simple things. Rather lovely really

Almost fell off my chair when some old friends called in and announced they’d given up alcohol. Apparently they’re pregnant with their first grandchild. Heaven help us

Heavens above! What have we become, giving a plain old potato a job description ? Surely a spud is just a spud?

Geoff’s Garden Tips Lightly prune. Before and after

Lots of comments from my UK friends on here about their department store Christmas TV ads. I know it’s still early, but I haven’t seen any for the big Australian stores. Probably because David Jones and Myer are sadly going broke

Why is it I spend much of the day meandering hopelessly from room to room, wondering where the jolly heck I put my glasses? Can’t see a damned thing without them. If only I had them on, I’d find the wretched things in half-a-jiffy

There is nothing more comforting than having your dog beside you on the bed as you sleep at night. Even if the occasional odious bodily emission surreptitiously wafts your way. Life wasn’t meant to be perfect

Reportedly, Harry has found a country pile with nine bedrooms. Call me old-fashioned if you will, but why would a family of four require nine bedrooms? Haven’t they heard of bunk beds? Admittedly, a game of hunt the thimble would be fun

The cold winds blow and gruel bubbles on the stove as I crouch in my humble hovel girding my loins, and read of a prime minister and a king sipping rum punch on a billionaire’s yacht in the sun-drenched Caribbean. One can but only dream

Attacked by one of these on my controlled stagger this morning. Mr Willy Wagtail. They used to be my favourite bird

My Time - Tuesday afternoon: the bike, weights, a cuppa tea and Mark Knopfler on the stereo

More time with John and Veronica and their art gallery crowd. Hate wearing a bow tie, or being lectured about Reubens. Not my cup of tea, but this time that’s all I had. No cheese or red wine, just a stale Ritz cracker. Came home bored, sober and hungry

“Oi !!! Where’s me brolly?” The King gets a right royal soaking in the Caribbean, and looks peeved. Quite rightly so. No way to treat a king

In my best Somerset accent : “I knows I’ll get in t’trouble fer sayin’ this, but I’m goin’ t’say it anyway. Nine women outa ten ten don’t know how t’scramble an egg.” Not me. I didn’t say it. It was a 1960s British TV commercial

This morning, on my teetering trudge, I bumped into quite a few old friends, then later on, several people I hadn’t bumped into before. I really should be more careful where I’m trudging

Mildred Next Door rang. After winning Lotto she moved to Bali to live with her ‘nephew’, Wayan. I did suggest she might be better off with a nice lad from Rotherham, but apparently they’re pretty thin on the ground in Bali. At least he’s not a Nigerian prince

Lunch at John and Veronica’s. They led me astray once again with one of my rare forays into the demon drink. Was told it was a decent red. Nothing remotely ‘decent’ about it. Was told I became quite tiddly. Writing this with great remorse from the dreaded doghouse