Hullaballoo

Bobo and I have been on a strict diet for weeks now, managing to shed half a stone on target and going for more. This takes steely determination and also yields a few surprises.

Yesterday, I idly picked up a pat of butter in the supermarket hoping to sneak it into the trolley for my middle of the night cheeky snacks. Bobo's face stiffened visibly, "butter should only be for incidental or emergency use." Suitably chastened, I released the offending article, shocked by a surprise visit from the Butter Squash Nut Squad. What next? Would he bring out a small megaphone and demand that I step away from the fatty deposits?

In the war on fat, the leaner, meaner, considerably less laid back Bobo wages war on stray fat cells. After much remonstrating, we got new weighing scales, because the last ones would have been more at home in a Soviet potato market, where a few kilos here or there make no odds. But now, the war on fat demands precision, with our weekly weigh in hotly contested and the winner being slapped on the back in a sportsmanlike way by the great big fatty loser. Weight watchers has nothing on us.

It's 5am and I have been awake for an hour. That's what comes of going to bed shattered and bloated at 9pm. I want to be asleep, but years of mummying have made me a very light sleeper.

So, I have decided to look on the bright side. What are the best bits of 4am waking?

1) Sneaking cracker snacks into bed to eat without using a plate (rock n roll lives).
2) TOTAL silence in the flat to think and read and muse.
3) The possibility of encountering a wide eyed boy child in the hall requiring a mummy cuddle
4) The capacity to write slightly self indulgent poems about life and the universe, which seem rather wanky when read in daylight hours.
5) A sudden desire to complete unfinished tasks which aren't normally considered
6) No one around to giggle and tease as I lie face down on a hot water bottle in the lounge to ease my sore tummy.
7) I am already awake and so won't be woken up by drunken students walking home singing and bashing bins.
8) I can almost convince myself that I am stealing a march on the day and conveniently forget that I am going to be shattered again by 9pm.

Seeing Patti Plinko and her Boy at the Edinburgh Festival was such a treat. Her cabaret act, strumming mercilessly on the ukelele, whilst looking adoringly at her fellow artist, dressed in a boiler suite was earth shattering. Patti is husky and yelpy, refers to screaming songs out at the audience and is as at home playing whisky bottles as she is musical instruments. She wore modest 50s dresses with massive burgundy boots and, in one song, dressed at Sophia Loren (admitting her attire came entirely from Primark).

The stage was backed with a curious looking bamboo screen, with faded photos pegged up alongside lanterns and a picture of the Madonna surrounded by fairy lights. I loved it, even if it was slightly David Lynch.

To say the performance was energetic, was to do her down. Don't take my word for it, see for yourself. You will either love it or hate it, there is no middle ground. When the audience came into the tiny theatre, the three musicians were lying around on the stage and remained acting as if they were dead through the first song. Alternative, YES and wonderful. She may not be a classically trained musician, but, if I could live my life again, I would like to come back as Patti Plinko.

By popular demand, here is a picture of me in the fab and groovy magenta and dark lime green mini dress I wore for Bobo's birthday. The colours just shouldn't go together, yet they do. I'm not sure quite how I carry it off, but I seem to. I love it so much that when it's all worn out, I am going to get another one made, or indeed several. Each could combine flamboyant and vivacious colours in a creative way.

We have had a lovely friend staying this weekend and so have got to do the Edinburgh festival as tourists. I chose what turned out to be a chronic and cringy show, Venezuela Viva, which billed itself as being Salsa, flamenco etc all done in a production which was "sexier than Riverdance." Oh dear, it emerged as the south American version of Riverdance, where an all female dance troupe took on historical roles to express the 500 year history, culture, colonisation, geography of Venezuela in the form of dance. It was hilarious, although it didn't intend to be. Sitting in the front row was a poor choice, especially when a wifey dressed as Christopher Columbus appeared on stage just in front of me. I couldn't look at her, I couldn't suspend my disbelief long enough to engage with her as a prominent historical figure. My friend and I just spent the performance nudging each other and trying not to offend the performers by being too obvious in our mirth.

Next up was a fabulous stand up comic who talked about how health and safety had gone mad, "I'm surprised they don't have signs on brick walls saying don't eat me." That really tickled me for some reason, along with his take on how feminized the world was becoming through the distribution of oestrogen related products. He said, "even the birds are turning gay, I woke up the other morning and they were doing show songs." The next comedy show was even better, despite the fact that I was a bit too knackered by then to listen properly.

Bobo is 50 today and looking younger and more gorgeous than when we got together 2 years ago. We got up extra early time for cuddle time (ahem) real coffee and present giving. He now has an extra long lens for his camera (the modern symbol of virility replacing the more old fashioned steel sword), along with 2 beautifully painted porcelain canape dishes and, wait for it, an over sized candy floss pink feather duster with a stripy handle. I think this was the most popular present, the other two were perhaps a little too grown up.

We had breakfast of broccoli and cream cheese pastries, coffee, fruit and croissants at a Le Marché Français and dinner at a gem of a Scottish restaurant, First Coast, near the flat. After that we were so full of beautiful Shiraz and fine fish that we walked around the Edinburgh festival street threatre shows for ages, until we felt less like lying down on our tummies because they were so full. I was wearing my Austin powers mini dress (magenta and lime green diagonal stripes) with purple leggings and killer action leather jacket, and Bobo was wearing his white linen jacket and looked like he worked for the BBC. I didn't realise quite how revealing the dress was, until I got home and looked in the mirror - oops! Luckily we weren't plagued by the traditional Edinburgher cross winds.

YS gave me permission to show you this card he drew for my birthday. He asked me what my favourite animal was and drew a monkey swinging from a tree. The big bird flying up high in the sky is decorative. Both are drawn with much love. The words are "you're pretty, you're nice, you're young, you're cheery." Who could ask for more from a birthday card? I am truly blessed.

OS drew me an intricate and wonderful comic and gave me the pot he made from the clay we gathered from the river bed. Beautiful boys, beautiful soulful gifts.