The thing is I went down to the pub a few days ago and the next thing I remember was waking up in a caravan on some dreadful site attached to what is best described as Cold Comfort Farm. I have no idea who owned the caravan but my instinct told me to get the hell out so I waded across fields of slurry and onto a road until I came to a petrol station with a Little Chef. Fortunately I managed to get coffee with the loose change in my pocket, I hate cards, and information about where I was which turned out to be closer to an old mate of mine than to my place, about thirty miles away. His lady wife wasn't to impressed to see me but he seemed happy enough so I stayed there for a few days. He has a big place all paid for by royalties from his one hit so we spent most of time I was there in his studio playing tapes and chilling.

Anyway, he eventually drove me back to my place and I was surprised to discover that no one even remembered me being in the pub the night I was kidnapped let alone who I was with. I still have no idea who the caravan belongs to.  Maybe female or maybe a serial killer, probably Danish, who was just about to hang me from a hook over the pig sty.

I can now resume my responsibilities and start blogging again