It ain't over until the fat duck sings

Good day to you and, while I'm at it, a belated Happy New Year.

I haven't updated this drivel since November but I have a bit of time on my hands today and thought I might as well use it unwisely.  (I'm also watching Donald Trump's impeachment trial because I'm a sad man).

Since my last post, Cleocatra has had her baby oven removed and won't ever have the chance to become a yummy mummy or dirty stop out. (The fact that she's sticking her tongue out at me tells you what she thinks about that).

As soon as her fur has grown back, we can all put the whole episode behind us. 

We'll also let her off the lead and allow her to meet boy cats who don't want children.

Talking of children, Charlotte has had her ninth birthday.

Yup, next up for our little girl is double figures.  (I know, I know - I don't look old enough to have a daughter of that age).

We've had Christmas (hopefully you did too).

We went back to Norn Iron for New Year.

Whilst there, we even went outside. 

But inside was very much a favourite for me.

And for her.

Other than work, which I've done a lot of up to, through and since Christmas (which is a positive when you're self-employed), the other major happening in my life is The Masked Singer.

It is surely, in equal measure, the best and worst programme in the history of television.

So much so that I can barely contain my excitement before finding out who goes tonight.

I reckon it's a toss up between John Cleese, Jeremy Corbyn and Meghan Markle. 

Or maybe Kate Winslet. 

Or Buzz Aldrin. 

Or Clare Balding. 

Or Boris Becker.   

Or Greta Thunberg.

7pm.  ITV.  Be there.  (I might be early).