I saw the picture of wee William just now and can't stop blubbering. He's so cute and doesn't look a thing like his namesake. Congratulations, Jane and Rory!

Headache No. 1 came from slamming my head in the car door. I'd opened the door and was sliding onto the front seat with a bag of groceries when my foot slipped. POW! The right side of my noggin smacked hard against the side of the car, which was unfortunate enough. But alas, at the same time my left hand happened to be pulling the door shut. POW! The door thwacked into the left side of the head. Just to even things up.

I've seen cartoon characters getting smashed with a pair of cymbals by their arch rivals; it looked a lot like that. Except more industrial. And because I inflicted the damage myself, it was a hoot. Gareth almost wept from laughter. And so did I, until it turned into searing tears of PAIN.

So this may have contributed to Headache No. 2 - Filling out my permanent residency application for the stinking Home Office. It's all been sent away now and I'm praying I didn't make any errors while mildly concussed. I shall find out in 4 - 12 weeks.

One question in the form intrigued me:

"Have you or any dependants included in this application ever been involved in acts of committing, preparing, financing or instigating terrorism or acts of encouraging or inducing others to commit, prepare or instigate terrorism, or the attempt of any such acts, either within or outside the UK? Or have you or any dependants included in this application ever been a member or supporter of an organisation which has perpetrated or supported acts of terrorism in furtherance of its aims?"

I know they've got to ask these things, but I wonder if anyone has ever actually ticked the YES box then sent the application in? Yes sir, I am a terrorist, and here's my cheque for £335!

Incidentally, if you've fallen in love with a British citizen, may I suggest you hurry the hell up and apply for your visa before 2nd April, as the already heartbreaking fees are set to rise. It's proposed that Indefinite Leave to Remain, aka permanent residency, will leap from £335 to £750 for postal applications, and £500 to £950 if you want to apply in person. OWW. The price of love ain't cheap, baby! But as you gaze at your British beloved as he heats up a tin of Tesco Value Baked Beans with a single match, you'll know it was worth it.

Likewise I was looking forward to applying for British citizenship next year, but that's set to rise from £200 to £575. I guess if you're not tempted by the right to vote and the right to a snazzy passport with a lion and a thingy on it, you could always just remain a permanent resident. You will always have the right to pay TAX, and that is a joy in itself!

Yesterday I finally tried a deep-fried Mars Bar, that notorious Scottish snack that no actual Scots seem to eat.

Friends have sung their artery-clogging praises and I've read their history on Wikipedia, yet they've always looked too turd-ish for my liking. But yesterday we met up with Jillian and Greg, our lovely friends from San Francisco, and they were keen to give them a whirl.

Although tempted by the Easter offering, we decided to share the original. Just 80p and we were on our way to deep-fried heaven.

Now you may think this looks bogging, but compared to the murky pictures on Wikipedia, this is Michelin material. Perhaps it was because we were in St Andrews and it's all bit posh up there, but our specimen was neat and handsome, cooked in clean oil with no black clumps of last weeks chips. The batter was light and crackly like the finest tempura. The Mars Bar was frozen, so its dip in the fryer made the innards hot and gooey while still retaining its shape.

The kind chippie man chopped it into four pieces and we dove in.

"Very nice!" said Greg.

"Very nice, but faintly fishy!" said Gareth.

"Very nice, but I couldn't eat a whole one!" said Jillian.

"Very nice, but I could do with a whole one. With a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side," said fatty-fatty fat guts Shauna.

The day of the rouge snoz has arrived and so has Shaggy Blog Stories! The book is stuffed with 100 wacky tales from across the British blogland, how can you go wrong?

There's even a contribution from me, although if you were hanging around here in 2004 you may well have read it before. But why not buy it anyway; there's 99 other stories that should keep you amused for hours. Most importantly you'll be raising funds for Comic Relief, woohoo!

Have you met the Friends for Life hounds? From the website: "Friends for Life recognises and celebrates the difference that dogs can make to their owners lives, be it through bravery, support or companionship."

There's a video of the shortlisted doggies and I'm begging ye to watch it! It's only five minutes; much shorter than a MotoGP race. The must-see bit is at 4:10 where you will meet nine-year-old Nye Thomas. He fell thirty feet into a river and broke both his arms, but was rescued by his trusty dog Bud. Gareth and I have watched Nye about 25 times now. His accent makes me bust a gut every time, and he has an hilarious turn of phrase.

"When Bud rescued me I was like... ohhh, flip. This is one strong dog. I was just amazed. I mean, how is he pulling me up like? I'm nine, and he's only eight!

If Bud wasn't there I might be in heaven, I might be in hell. I don't where I might be. I might be in a hostebal."

. . .

Are you a UK blogger? Are you funny? Are you feeling charitable?

Mike at Troubled Diva came up with a great idea for Comic Relief's Red Nose Day - he's putting together a book in a week, full of funny Britblogger tales called Shaggy Blog Stories. You can submit your most amusing blog entry if you're a Brit in Britain, a Brit overseas, or even one of those pesky Almost-Permanent-Residents who are currently tearing their flat apart looking for no less than twenty pieces of evidence proving to the pedantic Home Office bastards that their marriage is not a sham.

Mike's mission to pull off this "collaborative blog-stunt" in just seven days. It will be printed on lulu.com and all money raised by the sales (minus the lulu fees) will go to Comic Relief. More details here!

After an agonising five-month wait, the 2007 MotoGP season starts tomorrow! If you're in the UK and you have a telly, it all cranks up at 11.30AM on BBC2.

Seriously folks. The last season was the most wild and thrilling spectacle I'd ever witnessed. More exciting than say, being trapped naked in a tub of Nutella with Ed O'Brien from Radiohead. And 2007 is set to be a cracker, with Valentino Rossi on pole and looking to claw back the title he lost last year. To make things interesting, everyone is on new 800cc bikes that look to be even speedier than the old fellas.

My grandmother used to be a hardcore rugby league fan; nothing would come between her and the Parramatta Eels. We showed up for a visit one Mother's Day and she made us all sit quietly in the kitchen and completely ignored us until half time. It's only now that I can understand her priorities. I've entered all the MotoGP dates into my diary and all social engagements, holidays and haircuts between now and November shall be arranged around the race calendar.

So. If you have just 45 minutes to spare every couple of weeks, I urge you to give the two-wheeled soap opera a chance. There's plenty of characters and crashes and OVERTAKING, unlike those Formula 1 ponces. There's bimbo brolly girls and midget men in leather suits with horrible designs. Just give it a go, is all I'm saying. Somebody, share my joy!

Today I became a dog owner again. For two whole hours!

Gareth and I were walking home this afternoon and as always I was commenting on every cute hound that went by and whinging, "I wish we could have a dog."

Two minutes later an orangey ball of fur whizzed across the road, narrowly dodging a bus.

There was no owner in sight. She just trotted along, pausing to pee on tyres. She was only a wee puppy and I had visions of her pancaked under a truck. Gareth chased her down the hill and managed to call her over. A tag hanging from her glittery pink collar said her name was Fudge. I called the phone number but there was no answer. So what else could we do? We left a message and carried her home.

And gave her a drink of water.

Then she dived onto the couch and nosed around in the cushions.

She poked her nose into the vegetable box.

Then examined the fridge.

And howled as Gareth played her some tunes.

She was so very cute. And so very stinky. And whiny. And yappy. I'd forgotten how high maintenance puppies are compared to slow and independent old hounds.

After awhile she calmed down and was content to wander round the flat. It was kinda nice having her around, the quiet pad of her feet and the constant snuffling of her wee nose.

But then there was a new sound. Crunch crunch crunch. She'd helped herself to a carrot from the vegie box and was scarfing it down, dirt clods and all!

Needless to say shortly after all that fibre, she was whining by the door. We made a makeshift leash out of string and took her outside. It's not often you pick up someone's shit after you've only known them half an hour.

Her grateful owner came home from work and discovered Fudge had escaped again. I handed over the hound and was happy to see them reunited, but now I'm feeling quite bereft. A carrot-eating canine would have been ideal for our pseudo-vegetarian househould.

But we'd gotten too cosy too quick, already calling her "Fudgster" and "Fudgo". Gareth had even gone round to the corner shop and bought a tin of Pal Puppy Food (with Beef and Poultry!) just in case she had to stay late. I guess we're sorted for dinner then.