Waiter waiter, there's a fly in my soup...

Too... hot... to... type. Eh, who am I kidding, I love the summer. Although I'm due to go to New York in a couple of weeks, where it's apparently beyond stifling at the moment. So ask me again mid-August.

So, amongst sunbathing, pulling up weeds (which in most cases turn out to be flowers, and in one memorable case, fresh from the smugness of pulling up an entire bramble, realising it was actually nearly-ripe blackberries), I'm trying to clear out the little room. We have three bedrooms, though the little room is really only suitable for dwarves with growth impairment. I think it would make a nice piano room. TheBloke (TM) thinks it would make a nice home gym, but he is wrong. And importantly, not in the house today.

So, I'm trying to clear out the little room, which has been a repository of junk ever since we moved in. The contents include (but are by no means limited to: cricket trophies, broken suitcases, an entire dismantled broken bed, a selection of badges, a dental retainer from when I was seven years old and a whole load of paperwork).

I made a start. But it was only a few minutes into the "tidying" when I stumbled across some notes I'd made when I was still doing stand up. I used to keep a notebook by my bed, as ideas often occurred to me when I was half asleep. Perhaps I was half asleep when I wrote the following; I have absolutely no memory of it. It's in note form, and I'm 99% certain I never tried the material on stage, because I don't think I ever actually turned it into a joke. Enough. Here you go - a Laura Nunn original:

Nazi dinner party: Gestapo soup.

You won't be surprised to hear I don't do stand up any more...