My Homer is not a communist. He may be a liar, a pig, an idiot, a communist, but he is not a porn star.

The sun always shines on TV Bellerive. April, 2010.

Word was passed on to me the other day concerning a disturbing event that confronted crafty knitter, sometime blogger and erstwhile commenter Blackie in the middle of the night. Awoken by a rustling sound, Ms Blackie assumed that the culprit must surely be a roaming dirt magnet. However, a brief spot of reconnoitring revealed the true malefactor was not of the toddle genus, it was in fact a plain old Mus musculus exploring some half finished knitting.

Now, it is not my business to get into the rights or wrongs of musophobia, nor have I any knowledge of whether or not a Gertrude of Nivelles appeared in the guise of a strapping young man. What I can say, however, is that in the middle of the night I'd rather find a mouse explore my half-completed shrug still on the round (in a Continental fashion) than a tattoo-d escaped convict doing a poo in my handbag!