Peggy broke down on Saturday.
We thought it was because we put Super Unleaded into her (if you didn't know, Peggy is our beetle, I'm not some kind of sicko who inserts petrol into unsuspecting ladies) but it turns out it's probably the battery.
We had to be rescued by the rescue man.
I didn't get to meet the rescue man, because I went home to get the rescue man's telephone number while Nick waited with Peggy, but I'm hoping he looked something like this:

Although what I appear to have drawn there is Elvis holding a spanner. Still, you never know - it was the anniversary of his death - maybe he came back to help us get Peggy home.

I'm a bit sad at the moment. Trying to fight against an irritatingly persistent low self esteem that continues to tell me I'm utterly crap.
I wish I didn't get so nervous around people. Why do I panic and say the first stupid thing that pops into my head?
The acting industry seems to be all about bravado and PR and giving an impression that you're much more confident than you really are. I still don't think I've got the hang of it. Darling.

But at least I now have a pair of high-waisted trousers, so if all else fails I could pursue a career as a Simon Cowell impressionist.

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