A series of unfortunate cankles

Yesterday: Bloody dolphins, being all spectacular and stuff, making me go into full throttle old-lady at a jumble sale mode and elbowing the kids out of the way to get to the fine knits. After ensuring old duffer Elaine was safely immobilised on a non dog-pooed hairy hillock on the craggy Torry coastline, my loving family played on the beach and photographed the dolphins going mental while I developed some fine looking cankles (cheryl cole no ankles).

Today: I'm suspicious my work colleagues may have me under government surveillance, or paying Magnum PI to waterski discretely round Torry harbour in a muted Hawaiian shirt puffing on an electronic cigar. How else could they have so accurately captured the epic tragedy that was my Sunday afternoon sprained ankle episode. It's like they are pre OJ Simpson court artists. Let's be clear though, their talent surpasses the portraits you used to see on ITN special news, you know, the ones that made the accused look not unlike a squashed marrow, as opposed to a pinked up Eastender's Phil Mitchell Mr potatohead. Nah, my talented colleagues must have insider information or be whizz kids at pictionary to have whipped this beauty up and sent it to me today.

I've been confined to barracks, leg akimbo, mostly trying to find a mobile reception and taking the opportunity for the annual sorting out my work emails so that I can actually free up enough space to be allowed to send more emails that will in turn generate more emails that will in turn mean I can't send any emails.

On a positive note, I'm in Tess' good books as I was unexpectedly chauffeured down to see a bit of her sports day at lunchtime for a bit with my mother insisting I use her hillwalking sticks. Jings! What an attention seeker I am.

Tess got a third in the relay. It was sunny, at least while I was there. Nae bad, nae bad at a'. Now I must go back to those emails. Delete, delete, delete, del.........