I'm in trouble with my husband for flushing sausages down the toilet. And also for giving him a cricked neck because I made him go to sleep with his arm round me. And probably for many other things that have given him cause for irritation, of which I'm still unaware. But he's gone back down to London now, to fraternise with his London friends (Ross Kemp and Janet Street-Porter, and possibly Barbara Windsor, too, because as everyone knows, that's who you meet if you go to any old pub in London - not sure why I've added Janet Street-Porter there, never seen her in the Queen Vic), leaving us to suffer 'The Great Storm' all alone. Actually, I don't think the storm is going to be all that 'great' up here in the East Midlands. According to the really thin local weather lady (clearly BBC regional funding has been cut to such an extent that local news teams cannot afford to eat), winds here will only be about 60 mph. Not quite sure  what that really means, though. Does 60 mph mean a strong enough wind to knock your socks off, or just ruffle your eyebrows a bit? I've decided not to cycle into uni, just in case. Oh, yes, because I've got to go back and try to lasoe (? spelling?) a few more undergrads to join our rather brilliant volunteering opportunity. (Only one turned up on Friday, bummer.). I shall be selling it, in a windswept and fascinating way, and loads of them will want to join the project. Even if they don't, at least they won't tell me off for flushing sausages down the loo or giving them cricked necks, which will be an improvement on the weekend ;)