Although born in the UK, this little man is of African descent, and let's face it, would make a very attractive accessory for any modern yummy mummy. Note the satiny sheen of his skin, the long eyelashes, the smile that makes you want to bundle him into your bag when his mum is looking the other way. Which unfortunately, she didn't, once.

Peter lives!

Crocodile bride Jordan, pushed aside the waiting paparazzi and rushed to her husband's side, eager to have his diagnosis captured on film and broadcast to the lucky lucky viewers of ITV2.

Andre's wife Katie Price visited him in hospital last night, arriving with a camera crew. She told reporters: "No comment, not unless you give me £1 million."

Not an unreasonable price to demand for sharing your pain with the nation. She's got another three memoirs to write you know. Gotta save something for the fans.

Every cloud has a silver lining, and the Andres can take some comfort in the fact that they can sell the dramatic details of Pete's fight for life to every magazine in the Western hemisphere. And, should the interest wane before they've made enough to buy themselves a glass house in Florida, complete with swamp for Jordan to lurk in and lay eggs, Pete can always cough into a few tissues, and they can auction off the very strain of the virus that almost deprived the nation of the prince of perma-tan.

In summary, for those of you who had better things to do with your early evening (though the mind struggles to imagine what these could be) Susan, the iron woman, decided that Springsteen, Karl's beloved cockerel, his symbol of new life, a fresh start and some would argue, another mid-life crisis, had to leave the building. He had lice you see, and he'd given them to Karl. His beard was a crawling mass of infestation, and Susan was more than a little concerned about what exactly Karl had been doing with Springsteen which meant he had caught lice from him.

She chose not to dwell on the subject too long, sensible woman that she is, and instead, arranged for a couple of outback types who looked like they'd shared both a womb, and a marital bed, to cart Springsteen off to an unspecified location (eg. their oven). Karl was, understandably or not, devastated, to the point where he actually suffered a montage moment, and all of his memories of the time he'd spent with Springsteen came rushing back to him in dreamy soft focus.

It was emotional. Thought-provoking. Like Hazza's clifftop plunge all over again. A truly platinum episode.

And as a sort of tribute to both the good doctor and his feathery Freudian complex, I've decided to buy a cockerel, and name it Karl.

Karl will be luxuriously housed in the cupboard under the sink. He will compose his own songs on a small vintage banjo. He will read poetry in the park, and wear a monocle. He will follow a strict macrobiotic diet. He will be celibate. One day, I will take him to Melbourne, and show him how his ancestors lived, hopefully with the good doctor, his namesake, at my side.

His reptilian wife, Jordan, is already in talks with OK and Hello magazine for the 'Pete's recovery special' edition, with a free Andre stool sample for every reader! See the devoted star tend to her husband, supervising his bed baths to make sure the nurses don't sneak a peek, rubbing fake tan into the bits he can't reach, and reading aloud to him from her third autobiography.

Well, what an exciting weekend it's been for our raving reporter. Here's a (mercifully) brief update:

Saturday - I spend most of the day attending to my sister, who has unexplained abdominal pain of the complete fucking agony variety. This is put down to IBS and the stress caused by an unstable parent, who accused my sister of plotting against her with ex-husband the day before. Ultimately, the person I end up feeling most sorry for is myself, as I have a slight hangover, which, although never reached the complete fucking agony stage, hovers around the generally unpleasant level for most of the day.

The self-pitying is pushed up a notch by the fact that my boyfriend and I have managed to last 2 whole years, to the very day, and we were planning an evening of indulgence. However, we end up taking my sister to casualty, and the best we could manage was sharing a bag of Maltesers. We were finally relieved of duties at 1am, when my sister's boyfriend came to take over the watch, but by then all we wanted was a cup of tea that didn't taste exactly like the plastic cup that contained it.

Sunday - started at 5.30am, when I receive a call to tell me that my sister is being kept in with suspected appendicitis. Sleep after this is impossible, so I get up and do something useful. I watch the telly.

Made it up to the hospital by 10 and spend the next four hours reassuring her that having your appendix removed is an experience akin with plucking your eyebrows. Funnily enough, she doesn't seem entirely convinced, but then the nurse comes in to tell her that they don't think it's her appendix anyway, but doesn't offer an alternative explanation. This means she can now spend the rest of they day dreaming up all the new and horrible disorders she might have.

I am so relieved when my dad and brother turn up to take over that I almost (almost) offer to give the woman in the next cubicle the bed bath she's been demanding all morning.

At 10pm, sister is discharged, still undiagnosed, and told to come back the next day for a scan. We end the day watching Alan Partridge and discussing how easy it would be to get my dad sectioned. This is the most fun part of the entire weekend.

Monday - My dad has been talking about the parking situation in Brighton since he arrived. When we gave up and went to bed, I suspect he phoned a local radio station to continue his monologue. Anyway, he's busy nipping out every two hours to move the car to a new spot, and paying three pounds for the priviledge! Never mind, he won't have to worry about this sort of thing when he's been sectioned.

My sister finally gets a call to say she has an appointment at 5pm. She makes it home by 10, having been sent to the wrong department, lost on the system and told all the wrong things by all the wrong doctors. She begins to suspect that the cleaner made the initial diagnosis. They still don't know what's wrong with her, but they hope antibiotics will make the pain, and her, go away.

...has started to look remarkably similar to Dr Karl Kennedy, now that he's stopped shaving and started wearing casual clobber (KK that is. Olly was never a fan of pastel shirt and tie combos, and only shaves the back of his hands)

http://www.neighbours.com/Episodes/5145/ (see top left image)

But anyway. We ambled along there today, my sister and I, to see him in action. We got to the turtle tank nice and early, so nice and early in fact that we were the only people down there. Happily, it turned out that Joe was patrolling the borders, rustling up trade with the help of a megaphone: 'all of you tourists, get down to the tank - NOW!'

Once he was satisfied with the audience numbers, he disappeared out the back, presumably to powder his nose and have a last look over his lines. The visitors rattled away in various languages, and tried to stop their children from winging Barbie into the pool. After he had allowed the suspense to build to a satisfactory level, Joe emerged at the other side of the room, to the sounds of a pan pipe CD, wearing a life jacket, and carrying a plastic bucket of what can only be described as evil in its purest form. Minced fish guts.

He then talked the assembled tourists, and us, through the various floating wonders of the deep. The highlight of these was definetely Lulu, the vegetarian green turtle, who weighs 32 stone, and who Joe describes privately as 'a bitch'. She doesn't appear to be sticking to her diet and can often be witnessed gobbling down the bloody offerings meant for the sharks and her turtle chum, Jersey. Lulu is a big fat fake. To get the visitors extra specially wound up, she sometimes pretends to get stuck in some railings at the far end of the tank. There is generally an outcry, and an angry mob hunt down the nearest member of staff, and insists that Lulu be winched to safety. As it turns out, all that is required in the way of a rescue mission is to lob a couple of mackerel heads into the water, and Lulu frees herself with miraculous ease.

‘The silly, the selfish, the careless and the thoughtless’ women who discard their unborn children like last year’s shoes. The soulless creatures that put their size 8 waistlines or their career in sales above the right to life.

Libby Purves suggests that we have bent the rules to suit us. That all a woman who has found herself unexpectedly pregnant need do, is book the day off work and stroll along to the clinic. That despite any reservations the doctor may have about the reasons provided, they are unreasonably pressured into agreeing to the procedure by misguided feminism and the disregard society has for morals.

Apparently, it is the women that are queuing up to be flushed out with all the emotion they would display at a supermarket checkout that have seen doctors tearing off their scrubs in protest at having to meet the growing demand for 'lifestyle abortions'. We have brought this on ourselves, with our incessant demand for choices, for control, for autonomy.

I wonder if the author has herself ever been in the position she so readily casts judgement on. Granted, it is a lot easier to avoid unwanted pregnancy these days. And granted, some women will have been careless, thrown caution to the wind thanks to alcohol, drugs or pure denial.

But for all those women, there are countless others, whose method of contraception has failed them, and are now faced with an overwhelming dilemma, one that will never have a simple solution.

It is terrifying to be faced with the prospect of becoming a parent when you have planned to. Expectant mothers worry about money, time, the effect it will have on their relationship. Not to mention the daunting task of being entirely responsible for another human being, one that will be completely dependant on you, whether you can cope with it or not. But they have thought it through and decided that it is the right time, and that they are capable of raising a child.

However, if a family is something you have only ever really considered as ‘one day’, it is a huge shock to discover that there is a potential person in residence. You never really consider all the sacrifices parenthood requires of you, until you are faced with the prospect of making them. Not to mention that, whilst being a good mother is mostly down to your actions, it’s a hell of a lot easier when you have financial security, a stable relationship, family support, and, most importantly, you feel ready.

I doubt very much whether the one in three women who have had, or will have an abortion, have all of these important things. Some of them may have none.

Whether they choose to go ahead with the pregnancy, or decide to end it, only the most emotionally stunted person would go through the experience in the manner Libby Purves seems convinced so many do - ‘irritably, without a pang’. You might even question what sort of parent such a person would make in that state of mind. Because our care system is packed full of unwanted, abused, and neglected children, and our planet is creaking under the strain of vast over-population. Why should we be insisting women have a child they do not want, or cannot look after?

And what about the system itself? It is suggested that nobody who wants a termination can have one, and you can sail through the procedure without any real thought or consideration for what you are doing. If this is true, then why is this the case? Two doctors have to agree that the procedure is necessary. Do they spend any real time with their patients and discuss their options? Do they point them in the direction of a service that can provide them with the information they need to make an informed decision? Or do they just sign the forms and usher them through? If the latter is true, is it really so surprising that figures have risen so abruptly?

Trouble is, now I wish I hadn't bothered to walk down here, because there seems to be an outbreak of TB in this very room. Every couple of minutes, somebody's lungs start rumbling. There is gagging and spitting, with no thought for the carpet, or the delicate sensibilities of fellow PC users. A variety of exceptionally annoying coughs are on display, from the wheezing expulsion of mucus, to the polite 'hem hem'.

There was dancing on work surfaces! There were 3 flavours of crisps! Scary Mary was on the guest list!

Scary Mary is a Scouse healer from Worthing who has never really got over then end of the sixties. She clings to memories of a time when love, dope and people were free, and nobody cared about the Beckhams, or carbon footprints. That’s the way she tells it anyway. I may have watched a few too many episodes of Heartbeat to be truly convinced that life was any more exciting than a bag of flour for most of the population back then.

Mary turned up with a sandwich bag full of skunk, and an insatiable appetite for the attention of men. Luckily, there was lots of that on offer.

As one guest so delightfully put it, the party was definitely ‘cock heavy’. The amount of testosterone in the room was continually being topped up by Cath, who had drunk a pint of red wine through a straw. When she wasn’t busy inviting (male) strangers in off the street, she was performing a ‘lesbian snake dance’ on the coffee table with her friend Dawn, who kept getting carried away and biting people like a highly strung puppy.

Determined not to be left out, Georgie and I decided to tell everybody it was Welsh New Year, and wish them a happy 1983 with a lovely big dribbly kiss on whichever part of their face happened to be available. We ended the celebration with a very shaky dance atop the kitchen units, and then Georgie toddled off to lie with her head in Danny’s crotch for the remainder of the night.

However, the only single women on offer were Mary herself, and my little sister Sophie, who had swallowed the best part of a bottle of Asda own brand vodka and was bouncing on my bed to Bob Marley. So Mary had a fairly good chance of scoring some love. Her technique was interesting. She would sit down next to her chosen victim, and talk and talk and talk at them until they drained their glass in desperation and excused themselves for a slash, or stubbed their cigarette out in their eye and had to go and put ice on it. Olly actually feigned death in an attempt to get her to leave him alone.The woman certainly knows how to work a room. And how to clear it.

At 4.30am, most people were tucked up under a tea towel or a pile of books or whatever else they could find. The party was winding down, but, like a smouldering fag end, there were still a few guests trying to suck life out of it. They gradually gave up and went to get chips or lie in the middle of the road, with the exception of Mary, who at 5.30am, was still wandering up and down the corridor, muttering to herself, and checking under the furniture for stray men she may have missed the chance to talk to. But it was a fruitless mission. She should stick to grooving, at which she is very good Or become Dr Who’s new assistant and travel back to the time where she wouldn’t have to rely on uptight twenty-somethings for entertainment.

Her barely disguised hatred for Joel towards then end of their relationship is very amusing if you've ever been in a similar situation.

'I'm fucking crawling out of my skin. I should've left you at the flea market.'

But I'm not a total cynic. I also enjoy their relationship before it all goes wrong, when they're playing kinky games and eating takeaway in their pants. The part where they are having a snowfight on the beach, and Clementine rubs a handful into Joel's face with real force, gives me the shivers. You can tell that she is both frustrated and fascinated by the stubbly introvert in the beanie who mutters into his chest, and who she has somehow ended up being responsible for.

'Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up girl who's looking for my own piece of mind; don't assign me yours.'

We made stuffed peppers, and as they are impossible to eat with chopsticks, I had to teach her how to use a knife and fork. It was like watching a toddler take it's first steps, and when she mastered it, she looked so darn pleased with herself that I nearly ran and got the camera.

So it's all feeling quite worthwhile, and I'm starting to remember why I like this job.

And then.

She goes and completely ruins everything by making a very disturbing after dinner speech about the time her neighbour tried to eat her pet dog.

The full horror of this tale lay in the fact that she had once been round to his house, and eaten dog (where Fido had come from, nobody knew). She thought it was quite delicious, and, eager to have a second taste of the forbidden fruit, was keen for this man to skin, stuff and serve up her pet. Only her father stepping in saved poor Poochie from the pot.

We were on the train one day, when a man got on and started walking down the aisle, handing out bits of photocopied paper. My French isn't exactly hot stuff, but I think it said something along the lines of 'please help me. I am an asylum seeker and I have four brothers. None of us have jobs or money and we are very hungry'. After he'd reached the end of the train, he began to walk back along it asking for the bits of paper back, and obviously expecting generous donations for the priviledge of reading this sorry little statement.

We didn't give him anything, even though he stood there with his hand out for a very uncomfortable 5 seconds or so. If I'd had the ability, or indeed, the balls, I would have advised him to stop spending the last of his money on photocopying, unless it was his CV he was going to be handing out.

He got off at the next stop. We all sat and watched him leave the station, feeling slightly guilty. What if his four brothers decided to eat him when they got home because he hadn't been convincing enough?

But then, as the the train set off again, a lady came wandering down the carriage, handing out bits of photocopied paper. My French isn't exactly hot stuff, but I think it said something along the lines of 'please help me. I am an asylum seeker and I have four brothers. None of us have jobs or money and we are very hungry'.

People. If this is going to be your career, you could at least take the time to think up a few variations on the theme. Or use different trains.

We came to the conclusion that there must be a beggar's emporium in Paris, where canny entrepreneurs could pick up a whole host of props to get pity money rolling in. These included:

* Tiny Tears doll, painted blue for extra effect
* Wooden leg, to be propped up next to seated beggar
* Charcoal for rubbing into face
* Sackcloth and ashes
* Scruffy emaciated dog (also comes in blind)

How did this happen? Why did this happen? My money's on the farm dog getting amorous with Stumpy's mother, and failing to play it safe.

She's gonna have a hard time convincing her husband that he is the father of the little multi-legged freak. But, you play away, you have to pay (or rather, Stumpy does).

BUT.

Should I ever end up at the right end of the aisle. Should some shiny teethed, slick haired, glutton for punishment decide that my righful place is as his common law wife...

Then THIS is is the style in which I plan to make my entrance. The song itself will sound just as good on the organ. My dancing is only slightly shoddier than the ginger one.

I'm pretty sure that 'Celebrity Birthwatch' is only a reality show or two away. We've already had 'Celebrity Enema', which I'm told is similar to giving birth. Watching Richard Blackwood have the contents of his gut given the Dyson treatment was immensely satisfying. The nation would probably be equally amazed and enthralled by Z-listers pulling out their hair extensions in handfuls as the next contraction reaches its peak.

I finish work on Tuesday 10th at 2pm, and don't return until Saturday 21st April at 1pm.

Now, how best to spend this time productively? I cannot spend the entire 10 days asleep. Can I?

Considering going back to Wales, but then, if I want to spend a week in almost total isolation, arguing with irrational people, it'd probably be less hassle to apply to go on Shipwrecked. Or get myself sectioned.

Louis Theroux:

'Ello, you are through to the Glaaaastonbury hotline. With 'oo might I be speaking to....?'
'Brian the festival goer'
'Roight, and which festival is it that you would be liking to go to...?'
'Urm, Glastonbury?'
'Could you just hold on while I let the dog in...something's died in that lower field, I won't be a minute Brian.'

As Brian seemed to be holding for most of the day, my only other chance of a ticket is this:

'GREENPEACE at GLASTONBURY 2007

Since you did such a great job last time you volunteered for us at Glastonbury, we would like to invite you to apply again this year, although please remember that this doesn’t guarantee you a place.'

Yes, I did a 'great' job at Glastonbury last time. Four days of picking up litter at the hairline fracture of dawn. Here:

There were tears. Tantrums. Tabbards.

My boyfriend at the time had to give my sister and I several hearty lectures to keep us both on the straight and narrow. We were all for going AWOL and spending the rest of the festival in the Christian Soldiers tent, where they gave you tea and home-made compassion muffins. It was like your nan's front room in there.

Cath eventually managed to sneak out on Day Four, whilst him indoors was distracted by some fudge. Well, she did have a lot of pigs to scrub the next day. I managed to survive without her by knocking back most of the valium the doctor had prescribed for difficult times.