Good morning grass, good morning coconuts. After some confusion as to the plans last night, Whitney and her parents have run off to Disneyland leaving me and rest of the Geriatrics Club behind (Cameron has twisted his ankle, Drew has a cold, and I am slowly going mad and can't cope with lack of proper Scottish food such as meat, fat and gristle). The trouble is that in a house owned by someone who survives entirely on yoghurt drinks, there isn't really any actual food - I did attempt to scavenge some breakfast from upstairs, but I can't recall quite how many years the Cheerios I found were out of date.

It appears that we're going to spend the day watching the worst television in the world - at the moment Jerry Springer is on and has a lot of people with silly accents standing around forgetting their scripted lines and occasionally hitting each other with chairs, but not quite enough for it to be entertaining. And then there's four straight hours of Home Improvement.

Added at 6pm: In the middle of the Transformers film. Send help.