Magpie goes mad on mescalin

On the bus back from a marvellous evening at the Shoreditch House Literary Salon, I read my emails. Dan has sent a jolly one about Dolly's nocturnal wanderings. 

"I love the idea that she wanders around at night, finds something and thinks 'ooh that's nice' and then trots excitedly back to her basket with it only to find it wasn't quite what she really needed. Off again... Just imagine what she'd be like at clothes shopping - buy buy buy and never taking anything back."

Ah, I think fondly as I walk through the front gate, she is a funny little thing. I open the door and am nearly knocked off my feet by a large jumping bean with a flipflop in its mouth. I turn on the light to find a scene of mayhem.

Sophia's youngest son George's bicycle helmet seems to have borne the brunt. It can no longer conform to British safety standards, now that the polystyrene protection lies in blobs all over the floor. I follow the trail to Dolly's den. Oh Dolly! Not my ironic flat cap! And Sophia's fur-trimmed leather glove! Oh, and there are her daughter Poppy's strap-on heelies. And her Moroccan hat. And, honestly, I was going to use that Sainsbury's bag since I've run out of poo bags.

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Still, I think it shows a certain flair to have such catholic tastes at such a young age.