This here “blog” is eight years old today. Celebrating tonight by finishing off painting the living room then life can begin again.

Last week in the Kingdom of Fife we rejoiced in four consecutive days of fine weather. I took my sunglasses out of storage so I wouldn’t be blinded by bare midriffs on the high street. But judging from the long queues at the Tan Stand, they’ll all be orange soon.

Sunshine lends a wholesome air to the toun. I saw a girl walking to the park with a frisbee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Then I saw a peacock stop to pick up an abandonded chip. He fanned out his tail and tilted his head back, chip clenched in his tiny beak. I fumbled for my camera but the posing bastard gulped it down before I could focus.

Speaking of chips, we went out to Anstruther the other night. Nothing says summer like hot grease by the sea! I also wanted photographic evidence of a chip butty for my Dietgirl blog. I’d mentioned recently that Gareth was a devotee and some people were baffled and/or intrigued by the idea of carb on carb action.

Five years ago I would have been horrified, but now I see poetry in the bland, fluffy white roll, lubed up with butter and stuffed with flaccid fries.

Ask for a chip butty at the Anstruther chippie and your butty shall runneth over:

Gareth likes to eat the overflow first, building anticipation for the main event.

I went for the fish supper as usual. I had brought along my special Australianising Kit: chicken salt and a lemon. Back home you get lemon with fish by default, but over here you have to ask for it and they think you’re a freak. The chicken salt, which doesn’t contain actual chickens, was purchased for a ludicrous sum at the Australia Shop in Covent Garden a few years ago. I could take it or leave the stuff when I actually lived in Oz, but now flavoured sodium is a tasty, pathetic way of clinging to my roots.