I'm not saying I've moved to the posh end of town, but...

I'm not saying I've moved to the posh end of town, but...

For those of you with a strong interest in stalking me, I'm now living in Caversham in Reading. Yeah, I'm lowering the tone and sicking in hedges of one of the poshest parts of town. And what hedges.

I'm not saying I've moved into a posh neighbourhood, but after a particularly eventful council meeting, they passed a by-law that does away with all the local tramps. Instead, we have "Persons of reduced means supporting the cider industry", and there is a proper tramping rota organised by a fearsome ladty from the Womens Institute. Even the binmen round here have servants for all the heavy lifting.

And if you want to go shopping - beware: Our branch of Waitrose has a fantastically strict dress code. Turn up in Homme at Matalan, and you'll be sneered at and shown the door. Then, the pavement. Somebody once turned up there for a pint of milk one afternoon in pyjamas and dressing gown. He's still there, withering in a cage above the door, pour encourager les autres. Yes, we have got a branch of Iceland, but anyone seen going in there is handed free blankets laced with smallpox.

And there's more: The doner kebab van has a swan going round on a spit, and whenever I go out on the balcony for a stretch first thing in the morning, a huge crowd cheers and waves Union flags. It's a tough life here, I'm telling you.

But then, I'm used to living in the face of adversity. I lived in the West Country for nine years. They make you take rigorous Cider Exams before you're allowed to move in. It's all a bit hazy, but I think I passed.


In other news: I'm suing the Dalai Lama. His "Not Daily, Not a Llama" tagline's just taking it too far.

Lama! I'll see you in court.