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Welcome to Ambridge on the couch. An in-depth look at the arches with me, Harriet Carmichael, Lucy Freeman, Jeff Thomas, Matt Rodriguez-Pain and James Everett.

Did I miss anyone? I can't remember. Nope, okay, so I do it scriptless now. I'm scriptless. I know. It's incredible.

Now before we make a start on your emails, let's have a look at what happened this week in Ambridge. This week, a small dog called Achilles apparently swallowed a hearing age, which was the most interesting thing that happened, frankly. We began the week with Lily hunting for her passport to go to Australia, although the fact that she was going seemed to keep slipping her mind. despite Josh and Paul treating as if she was going on a tour of a sewage works. They've got a nerve, the pair of them, sitting on their asses five miles away from where they were born, criticising her for wanting to get out of Ambridge. They all got trollied and blamed each other, and Lily apparently became deranged and said that Josh should not have put the meat into the roasting tin with his bare hands. How did she propose he did it with his teeth? We basically

spent a week listening to three people have diarrhoea and do jigsawes, which was a bit upsetting.

But then St. Leonard of the Unsullied Virtue, Blessed Bee, appeared as the geriatric emergency

service once again, washing up and giving them glasses of

of water, which they treated as if he'd just prepared a suckling pig.

Over at the GPs, Azra sprang a leak. Ben was being overly enthusiastic and helpful,

and Lottie, Pips' one and only friend, reappeared as the doctor's receptionist,

who immediately started helpfully giving out the names of patients to others in the queue.

I don't know a lot about GDPR, but I am pretty sure that the NHS is quite hot on not handing out patients' names, left, right and centre. I do appreciate it's difficult. I live in a village and we're lucky enough to have a GP surgery. And when you go in, 13 people recognise you and immediately ask what you're in there for. I always say, the clap's back, I'm afraid. I really thought I'd shaken it off last time and they tend not to ask again. Paul had his appraisal with Alistair, who sounded very gloomy, probably because he was wondering where his girlfriend had gone as he could have sworn he had one and were slated to marry her at some point this year, but she delivered him some plasters

and then vanished off the face of the earth. And more worryingly than that, Shula's coming back. Anyway, Paul got told he was marvellous, apart for the fact that he's unable to attend any patients further than walking distance, which is naturally a bit of a problem for a practice specialising in farm work, and David wasn't keen on herding the cows down and letting them loose in the waiting room.

They tried it, but theyding the cows down and letting them

loose in the waiting room. They tried it, but they ate the flea and tickly flits and

shat on the scales, so driving lessons it is. We also found out that Alan is only six

centimetres taller than me. And although I am sure you all have an image of me as a tall, willowy figure

along the lines of Nicole Kidman or similar, I am actually more on the lines of Margaret Rutherford. And therefore, so is Alan. When he ride his motorbike, he must look like a wumble on wheels. Sadly, Lawrence Harrington survived a heart attack and if the scriptwriters think that we're going to swallow him rejecting his rampant racism because Azra was the one that saved him, they have another think coming. I mean, I know it's Christmas, but come on. Half a Friday's episode was taken up with working out who was going to clean which room. For one horrible moment, I thought we were going to be in there with the Lou Brush and the DeBestos. And the shock reveal was that Lily was not going to Australia for quite as long as she said she was. Josh announced that the three herberts at the stables could be slow.

No shit sure.

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