Friday 20th April. Drip, Drip, Drip Little April Showers.

Yip-dee-doo-dal-ar-ly, it’s Friday.

And it’s sunny.

Fridays are always good for the obvious, not having to get dressed for two days, reasons but lately a certain frisson has been added to my end of week celebrations due to ‘that’ column in the Daily Mirror.

Checking in with ‘The Secret Diary of a Single Mum’ to see which of my previous blog ideas ‘Lady-Who-Copies-Writes-It’ has gone with this week is wicked.

Keep up the good work ‘Lady-Who-Copies-Writes-It.’

Now I know how The Little Britain crew feel whenever they overhear a man in the street saying that “the computer says no.”

It’s a warm and talent-affirming sensation.

Whilst I was busily glowing with ‘Cool-I’ve-Bin-Ripped-Off’ pride, I noticed in the paper that it’s going to rain this weekend, and what I want to know is, will this cause ‘Parts-Of-Britain’ to be lifted out of the Mojave-Desert-Style-Drought pickle in which they have tragically found themselves.

Now I watch the weather report, at some stage, on most days and it seems to me that the blue patches that the ‘Wevver-Bird’ is always pointing at, are pretty much as blue, and as widespread as they ever have been.

So 24/7 rain is apparently not a solution to drought.

Good to know.

Perhaps someone could let the African continent know that it’s high time they stopped bleating about their problems.

Tell ‘em to look up Newbury on Google Earth and they’ll see what hard times really are.

Comic Relief will, in future, be filming it’s pot-bellied, starving, malaria racked orphans from a sewer-strewn shanty-town just outside Harlow.

As we speak, somewhere near Norwich, the cattle are sinking to their knees.

The groaning earth is cracking under the relentless noonday sun, the buzzards are menacingly picking off the bewildered hedgehogs who, having been accustomed to being the only demographic hitherto interested in ‘thinkin’-they’ll-go-eat-worms’ for dinner, are now getting a bit stressed-out as all the decent bugs are snatched up and thrust down the gullets of the starving, skeletal kiddies by their anguished ‘Baby-Mommas.’

Don’t be fooled by the green, lush spring grass or the blossoming apple trees you see out of your sitting-room window, or even whatever it is that the ‘wevver-bird’ is trying to sell you, ‘Parts-of-Britain’ are in the bony, vicelike grip of a famine-grade disaster.

Having said all that, if the industrial users of 60% of the water in this country would stop using it to cool their machinery and nuclear power stations et cetera, et-cetera which, when they’ve finished with it, is all contaminated (and that) and cannot be re-introduced to the water-table, maybe things would improve.

Alternatively, you could solve the problem by refraining from watering your daffodils with your hose-pipe.

Yeah, That’ll do it.