Back home

There is nothing to come home to from Madrid. The boiler is still broken upstairs, I left Tiger's pink trousers on the washing line outside for five days under the dropping ivy and the nesting pigeons, and the car tax is due.

On the plus side, I discover I am destined to be demented by age 70. On my doormat is a note from the dementia society. They say I should give them my money while I remember I still have some. Only I don't have any. I remember that.

But when I crank up the computer I discover everything is fantastic in the money department, if not in the trouser-on-the-washing-line department. I could donate my millions after all.

I have won £950,000 pounds from Mercedes Benz. That's three times now. It should nicely join the £1million I won last week from Google and the £50,000 I won in the Eurolottery that I don't play.

But there is more! My blog is now so exciting with its six and half readers, one of whom fancies the pigeon, that a website about dog mental health aspires to feature grit's day, but only if I pay them some eurodollars.

With my new found millions, and looking to escape the delights of a Smalltown house without heating, I might just do that.