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We wandered down by the River Ouse today, near Fulford, where a lucky few boho types live on houseboats. Once again we appreciated and felt humbled by our lovely York surroundings as we dribbled ice cream down ourselves (but, sadly, not each other, as York-folk don’t react favourably to such gastro-inspired public displays of affection) in the glorious hot sunshine. Today we discovered that gardening, from which we were taking a well-deserved break, sucks! Which was slightly less of a shock than yesterday’s discovery in the garden; a fully-formed, all-quacking duck. Unfortunately, it found a friend and waddled off before we could welcome it into the fold, where a playful cat would have ridden it around the house.

Preparations for The Worst Seat in the House are picking up pace. I have purchased a swanky pair of shoes fit for a public performance. Now all I need to do is work out what I’ll be jabbering on about for an hour and, hey presto, I’ll have a theatrical-themed hit on my hands. Yes, it really is this easy. I can’t actually wait to stand up there and, just thinking about it, I can already feel the adrenaline starting to pump. Am finding Andrew Loog Oldham’s biography Stoned very inspiring and wish to replicate his swagger in all my future dealings en route to the success I undeniably deserve.

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