I've been up for the past two hours with the acute inability to sleep. It's not mini-hd squirming, or being uncomfortable - it's just the fact that I couldn't quite settle down again after being violently prodded in the bladder by the mini one and then blinded by the light shining through from next door when I then had to pop to the little ladies.

Not that I have long to go and admittedly, maybe this is training for me. The joys! But there isn't all that long to go. And whilst occassionally I do get fed up with being large and rather rotund, I realise that whilst it would be nice to get my body back, this would in effect mean that I would get less sleep and be shackled down more to a routine which will take time and space to build. A complete change of lifestyle.

And lets not forget poor grumpy Girlpants. That man can not survive on lack of either food nor sleep, so I might have to even resort to some of above the baby sleep techniques on him. Right after stocking up on frozen portions of home made leftovers so that he can survive the early weeks. I'm sure that he managed to cook and look after himself before we met, but apparently now the pixies do alot of the jobs around the house, which must make me Dobby. Oh to be appreciated.

Parenthood. It's a big unknown, and to be honest, I also worry how how mini-me may affect our relationship. Before, we had the choice to go out and about, do as we please, spend money where we wanted and quoff gin until the junipers were in bloom. And whilst we never actually did any of these things, it's the fact that the choice has been taken away from us that makes us wonder. Like marriage, it's a big adventure which we want to face on together in our own way. And whilst this is what we want, we are however painfully aware that as much as we want to try and do as much as we can on our own, that there are some people who appear more excited over the new addition than even us. And just because we didn't jump up and down for the last several months.

I sense the setting of boundaries ahead...

I did vow to myself earlier this year never to accept another meme, however before I could update my about me, Mister Bart’s dart hit the mark. So here I go.... Once more, the rules are as follows:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Mention 'Da Rules'.
3. Tell six unspectacular quirks of yours.
4. Tag six bloggers by linking.
5. Leave a comment for each blogger.

Regale the readers with six things all about little old moi – however apparently I shouldn’t make them too interesting... But as this will be my last meme, I won't tag other bloggers as I've been burnt by that action before. So if you fancy, please join in.

As for me...

1. I ate so much tomato soup as a child that my natural tan developed a slight orange tinge to it. Given my mini-me stature, I was in effect an oompa lumpa.
2. I hate getting water on my face to the point that I will scrub, cleanse and dry it before getting into the shower.
3. I don’t like baths. After all – who wants to bathe in soup de la Sim?
4. I am effectively a crap liar. You can spot any of my ltiny little white lies or especially any of my huge snorkers from 50 paces.
5. I once served a triple expresso to Daniel Day Lewis, clad all in biker leathers en route to Spain, still with his Last of the Mohicans’s long hair. He gave me a £2 tip which I squirreled away only to find that my mother had raided my piggy bank whilst in Japan.
6. I didn’t own a pair of jeans until well into my teens as my father said they were un-ladylike. I finally got my first pair for my 16th birthday after my friends clubbed together in teen solidarity. 

Voilà. And that folks was my last meme.

And not just any classic. Jimmy Page was fabulous as the Led Zep riffs echoed around the birds nest stadium of a Whole Lottsa Love. But then Missy Lewis opened her mouth. And warbled.
Was I the only one cringing? Don’t get me wrong – Leona Lewis has been a top class winner of X Factor and has a great voice. But rock she is not. She’s ballard-y. Now IMHO if one is in a birds nest, you could be forgiven to believe that either you’ve been shrunk, are about to eat a tasty meal or presume that you are in effect a bird and therefore trill like one for your supper. But Leona Lewis was just wrong here. She essentially has the wrong voice for LZ.

What was wrong with a bit of Shirley Bassey? Arctic Monkeys? Muse? Or even actually getting Led Zep back together once more to blast one out from the past? Or could they not persuade the hipper stars to get onto a horticultural bus whose top was made out of privet hedges that looked nothing like the vintage London buses to perform? It can’t be that all the peeps on the bus had to come from London as Beckham was there with the second biggest cheer (the biggest going to the Korean team member who dive bombed through the crowds to get Beckham’s football).

Whilst wincing in pain at the final 8 minutes for British handover, Girlpants and I threw ideas out over what the opening ceremony for 2012 may be like, given the fact that we opened with people queuing at a bus stop, cyclists and bowler hats.  Mary Poppins was fully expected to float down and shake up some of the slovenly dress and jumping of the aforementioned queue. We even expected a pre-empt of the London marathon, with added incentive to go faster as participants were chased by gangs of knife welding youngsters after the athletes top of the range new trainers.

I’m quite taken with the idea that we should go the whole hog and go back to our historical roots. Let Her Majesty come out and sit in the Royal Box whilst looking on at a Royal Jousting Ceremony where handpicked athletes ride in the arena encased in full armour, throwing her garter at her preferred champion. Meanwhile, HRH Duke of Edinburgh bounds to the rescue of the British public as he hurtles over the Royal Box and rugby tackles the Earl of Wessex who has suddenly appeared in the arena in full cringeworthy It’s A Knockout regalia that he's dusted out of storage. High up, Harry Potter lookalikeys whizz out on broomsticks to play fictional Quiddich above our heads as the torch is lit and they desperately try to not set their robes on fire, whilst Dizzee Rascal raps out his own version of Bowie’s classic “Heroes”.

The 2012 Olympics is our oyster is it not...?

Annual leave.

Unless you have anything specific to do, you end up just doing a few jobs around the house and the weekly shop. Or in my case, just the weekly shop as I'm not allowed to help out around the house due to my pregnancy induced disability that renders me incapable.

But my goodness.

I. Am. Bored.

Ideally, we could have flown away somewhere or visited a far off European land by eurostar. But from 1st September, my money goes down to zilch and maternity kicks in so we're watching the pennies, so I may just do my Christmas shop in the next couple of weeks online. And when you think about how close it is now to crimbo, it makes you stop and think that this year has really flown by.

It seems only a couple of weeks ago that we took the parenthood test and the words "bollocks" echoed around the home, mainly as quite a bit of alcohol had been imbibed in the weeks before. And I'm quite sure if I tried, I could still squeeze into my jeans around the baby bump whilst my now even more so impressive cleavage could be rammed into some of my rather low cut tops for the full ability to take someone's eye out as I walk on by.

However we're now nearing the home stretch. Baby bump will be arriving soon and if we're really lucky, we may get to see if it's a boy, girl or merely confused sometime later today as I am once again scanned due to muggin's being in breach. Not that I mind the scan but I do have an overt fear of hospitals, hence the screaming big letters on the birth plan tells them to get me out of there asap. Which may not happen if baby still refused to turn. Weebles wobble but they don't fall down, and they have done everything shy of using a cattle prod to try and turn the bump to no avail, hence today and meeting with the consultant to chat about being too posh to push and tummy tucks as baby may be taken out of the sun roof. I do hope the consultant is hunky. Fear of all things surgical is always appeased by a little eye candy which is how I bi-annually justify my drool to Girlpants at the young trainee dentists.

A week! A whole sodding week since I last blogged. And I made a promise to try harder...

But then again, I do have a defence. It's not a good thing when you're up the duff and the man get's ill. In all fairness and in Girlpants defence, he's been trying to get the house ready whilst also trying to work on his real job full time and it's all been too much. And as such with life, somethhing had to give and he fell ill. Man Flu. Again.

Whilst usually I can deal with this, my rather protruding belly means that baby bump takes all the goodness whilst I have to suffer any consequences. So after tending to Girlpants for the last week, I fell ill to the dreaded man flu, which automatically developed into something far far worse.

Girl flu.

Gents - this is when illness really kicks in. Usually your mum used to help you with the sniffles, served up soup and placed a cool flannel over your forehead, all the while she would be fighting off the germs herself. But then when you have something taking the vitamins and all things nice from your body, there's no chance of that. It's not just a sniffle that you can ham up, but a full blown, weak as a two day old pup virus that overwhelms your entire being. And then all of a sudden, Girlpants realised that whilst I had been sympathetic, on Thursday afternoon it became all too clear that it was now his turn and he now had to look after me.

Right after I made supper.

I sense that some understandings need to be fleshed out...

Now that the wall of Alcratraz has been errected, the house has fallen quiet once more. No more anti-social brats popping over, maybe because we've stuffed every nook and cravice under our neighbours fences with dry holly an then back it up with a wall of breezeblocks. Or maybe because we've had more rainfall in the past 5 days than the past three months, but I would prefer to think the former...

As I'm currently suffering with cankles, as mini-hd grows and manages to lodge limbs behind hip bones and ribs at in opportune moments, the rain has come as some sort of solace, although the heat build up makes it worse. And me tetchy. Maybe it's the heat or the fact that my body has finally given into withdrawal symptons at the lack of my favourite tipples, or worse even the realisation that we're shortly going to be parents and that I have the almightly feeling that we're not at all prepared for it.

That and I have no job to go back to.

The lack of job worries me somewhat in so much money, but the fact that possibly for the next year or so, I may be out of work which just leaves me mini-hd and facing the dire possibility that I could very readily turn into mumsy Sim. This probably in some aspect, is re-inforced by the lack of choice in maternity wear you can buy in the Mouth of Ply and how those sack cothes make me look, as someone in work has commented for the last 7 weeks how utterly huge I look. Cue Sim, stage left, running out of the room, faking a crying fit whilst sobbing that I was no longer attractive. Cue colleague extracting size 12's from mouth under the glare of the ladies that share their office, never daring to mention a women's weight again.

So whilst I am admittedly getting technically bigger and I only have 8 working days left, I can at least say that my evil sense of humour is still at the forefront. Adding to this, Girlpants has tried to solace me with the fact that we can teach the child lies.

I suppose there is some hope after all

As Girlpants is still away, I thought that I would help him out with his chores. In our house, I clean the house, I cook a variety of home cooked from scratch, shop within the budget and look after the little living things when they're ill in the night, malting tumbleweed like no-ones business or need feeding early in the morning - the only line I draw is cleaning the fish which as far as I'm concerned is man's domain. Girlpants chores are basically all the DIY's and the laundry. But as I'm actually missing the man as this is the longest he's been away for the longest time, I thought that I would help out with some of his chores. Not the DIY as apparenty I'm too disabled to hold a screwdriver due the half labotomy that I've automatically got with pregnancy on the NHS. o - I decided to help out with the other.

Gentlemen - I read the manual on how to use the darned washing machine.
Ladies - I sorted out colours and managed to complete two washes.
All - I forgot to both throughly lint the cat blanket plus put in aside for it's own wash and presumed that it could all be put in together.

And now Girlpants has some very furry chinos and shirts. And I have less than 24 hours to sort it out.

I won't mention the state of the underwear....

Bugger buggery and botheration... How did I managed to miss that? PCSO Bloggs has tagged me - quite some time ago only I was too wrapped in big bellies and a sooo cute teddy bear snow suit that smells like a baby to notice...

Dear God - put me out of my misery and shoot me now...

So here are the rules if you decide to play along:

1) Link to your tagger (please visit PCSO Bloggs here and wave hello!) and post these rules on your blog.
2) Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3) Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs
4) Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
5) Duck as you face the vitriol of those you've tagged realise the crime against blogging you have just committed....

So here is goes....

1. I am a NCIS freak. And CSI, Bones and Morse. I even watch the repeats.

2. I currently weigh less pregnant, now than last November, drunk. A fact which is rather sad but hopefully my new healthy lifestyle is and will pay off

3. I am due to start a masters in forensics in September. Girlpants has even offered to buy me a suit to help...

4. I'm quite quite sure and have argued on several occassions that Bambi's mother tasted wonderful with blackberries and a mustard salad. In other words, I love steak, roasts and am a carnivoire of the highest order.

5. I am exactly 21 days younger than Girlpants. Apparently to the hour...

6. I miss gin. I really really miss my gin. This baby better love me without a doubt nor whim nor tantrum!

7. I hate marmite. And the fact that some advertising tycoon persuaded Paddington Bear to sell out. The gits.

Unfortunately it's late and I must decide whom to tag...via comments! :) Am going a visiting now!

Sorry guys :(

Out and about, entertaining Professor Lovely last night in an Italian restaurant, the conversation took a sudden turn as Girlpants and I were about to tuck into our meals.

Dr God's-Gift - We've made the calculation that you made your baby on the night when you came over to ours for supper...

Can you hear that clang of a bomb hitting the floor? The constant light chatter suddenly ceased as 7 sets of jaws dropped and turned, including mine. Which is a shame as the aroma from the cherry sauce was making my mouth water...

It's slightly disconcerts and then makes me deeply cringe to think that some of our friends have been sitting at home trying to calculate when Girlpants and I, well.... ahem! For want of a better phrase - indulged in hanky panky. Mulling on other people’s intimate lives is a bit like thinking of the Queen sitting on the proverbial throne. I've never done that in my life. There's a reason why if anyone asks, my siblings and myself were made in test-tubes. Some mental images are just not needed. The only time I think I ever tried the people sitting in front of you naked technique was before an interview board where the chair person grilling me had the biggest and hairiest mole on the end of their nose that you could imagine.

Lucky lucky me. Professor Lovely attempted to cover my blushes, regaling us with how his eldest was conceived on Christmas Eve. But nothing, no nothing could compare to Girlpants clumsy attempts at humour to spare my blushes. By adding to them. Whilst I could see each person suddenly trying to mentally calculate any marital shenanigans whilst eying us both up, he entered the fray with humongous size twelve’s:

"When everyday is a sh*gfest, how could we possibly we work it out ourselves??"

Cheque please!

Why is it when men get ill, it's five times worse than anything else in the world? No matter what pain, how hard or how difficult the trials, it can never compare to a man suffering from the common cold.

Girlpants is ill with man flu again. But doubly worse and much to my shame, now I am. And I'm acting even worse.

To say that having two drama queens on the sofa bewailing their woes and illness is enough for anyone would put it mildly. The cats have fled and the fish are all hanging around the only spot in the tank that is furthest away from us both, as either side of the sofa belows with nose blows that fog horns would be proud of. I can only attribute my chronic self woe down to being up the duff with blob. I'm currently weaker than a two day old pup. Whilst usually I can pop a couple of pills and then carry on with the day, whatever energy I would usually have must currently be sucked out of my by mini-hd, whilst I can take nothing to help me. Lemsip? Ask my midwife, and she will say yes. Ask the pharmacist as the other half did yesterday, and in order to cover their own backs, I apparently have to grin, take fluids and bear it. No paracetamol apparently, herbal remedies haven't been tested and are therefore not advised, no anti-histamines to sooth the nose... the list goes on. Take naddah.

So if this is the case, then I'm going to milk it for all of its worth as I may not get duffy duck again. This may be my only chance. So I may as well ham up it and see what I can get out of it. There's been no demands for exotic food stuffs, foot massages, or even breakfast in bed but in my weakened and faint state, I feel some of the moments may come on in a room very near me.

But then again, Girlpants has written a new motto above the front door...

Pregnant Not Disabled

Whilst the drag back to work was harsh in the first week, it's slowly getting back to normal. I say normal - each morning the cats are are waiting patiently at the foot of the bed, pawing at my nose to get up and feed them (although you would think two meals and biscuits would be enough for any furball). Girlpants pulls the pillow further over his head and rolls deeper into the duvet like a human sausage roll, whilst my feet are suddenly snapped into the cold as my half is usurped.

And most mornings, I really do not want to get out of bed.

I find myself lying in for 30 minutes (after putting the alarm a little but extra early) and dream of my school days or even that time last year when I was working four days a week, looking forward to that bank holiday weekend which slowly creeps forward. My Friday's off meant that that morning was lie in, a lazy day where I could catch up on the housework, do the shopping and then have a little time for me. It was the day of the week when my cats actually preferred me to Girlpants, when I could preen myself to my hearts content, away from male prying eyes so that my appearance seemed effortless, or even when I could dawdle and browse around town at my leisure - something Girlpants hates as all shopping must have a purpose.

Since having an extortionate amount of time off for the yueltide festivities, each weekend seems so short as we try to cram as much as possible into 48 hours. First priority is sleep. Catch up time is a must as it's early to bed on a Friday to cram as many zzz's in a possible. And then the weekend shop followed by the DIY in the doldrums continue, saving enough money by working on it ourselves so that I can half Nelson Girlpants into letting me have those sexy granite worktops. And then before you know it, it's Sunday night and that dvd you've been meaning to watch since Christmas still lies unopened on the side. Why is it when you go back to work after time off, you always need another holiday?? Or the need to create a plethora of excuses to get the man out of the house for some time to me and to exfoliate my legs?

It has to be fresher’s week. We were inundated with freshly scrubbed newbies, eyes wide with the notion of being away from home for the first time and anticipating a new world opening before them. Each new fresh face was filled with wonder mixed with worry, line of dread as they realised that parents were no longer holding the leashes tying their children tightly to their sides.

Which meant that for the past two days, I've experienced parenthood. Of a type.

Every single question within the sphere of uni that you can imagine. Accomodation. Council tax. Lifestyle choices. Banking. Budgets. How to live in the real world. Holding hands with new students as they try to start off at uni until they move towards lectures and standing on their own two feet. You know they'll come back with their problems - exams and money usually. And when they do, we'll all be there.

And whilst Girlpants and I have occassionally spoken of babies and then withdrawn back into our working worlds, this has to be a small insight. But the two days were enough to drain me.

This weekend is a triple whammy of birthdays. There's Talkative Sis whose thirty-erm something, Lawyers Sis's other half and Mummy who offically is 21 again but if you look at her birth certificate may state that it was been issued a few moons ago. Needless to say it's a landmark and a cause for the family to once again meet, drink and bounce off walls.

The trio of us immediate daughters have all clubbed together and we've bought her the standard rose with yellow buds that she had her eye on from the local B&Q. Took some penny saving but we got there :) Father however wanted 24kt jewellery for Mother and went out on his own and bought her a set setting off into town and shopping. From a localised "retailler". He went to Wants, the local pawnbrokers which caused Talkative Sis to be momentarily stunned before lecturing him on hygiene and actually asking Mother what she may want for her special day.

Have you ever seen that episode of Scrubs? The one where Turk gives his lady love a gift that unbeknown to him was previously removed from a patient's rectum - effectively, he blessed her with an arse pen to prove his love. True to tv fantasy, this set of jewellary is my Mothers arse pen. A set of pawned second hand jewellery that she will in no doubt love but would bathe in several gallons of dettol before she wears them. And whilst cringing at his first revelation, he revealed his second choice of gift, completely stunning me as he imparted the secret of what else he had bought to surprise mother...

I know. Words do not suffice. I did try "Gopping", "Hideous", "Grotesque" or even "My eyes, My eyes, My bleeding eyes!" were not sufficient enough and he took no note. Apparently the mere fact that my mother collects ornamental "Wade" was enough to persuade him that this collection of things, on one of her most important birthdays, was what she desired and most dearly longed for.

Needless to say, I'm not sure if the stuff which her childrens nightmares will be a happy gift, but I do know that she will have no room in which to display them as they are filled with other ornamental tatt with even more curios which had been packed aways in boxes years ago when they visited far away lands, and had since forgotten and replaced on the shelves.

Whilst to my shame, I had given in to the emotional blackmail that my Father had thrown at me to procure the clowns above. I did however put my foot down at completing the set. I mean, would you like to receive this on a celebratory mature landmark?

If no, could you kindly have a word with my Father?

With the mini heat wave crashing over the county this weekend, it was a delight to watch the good old stiff upper lip coming into play, whilst the pragmatic of us also packed brollies in hand/manbags. Tinny bad versions of Greensleeves and Match of the Day filled Friday afternoon as ice-cream vans tout round the residential streets trying to entice those suffering from the sun that it was just so much simpler to come out and pay for an ice-cream instead of walking inside and raiding the freezer, whilst children sulked as they believed their parents white lies.

Girlpants, who spent the day working on plaster boarding walls, found the day difficult given his pale pallor and the manual work; however he dealt with the heat with his usual aplomb. He broke out a t-shirt in favour of the plaid, wore shirt linen trousers and topped off the ensemble with steel toe cap boots with his socks pulled up to his knees as all good boy scouts do.

Of course, in a country which tends on the grey and rainy side, there were bound to be complaints. The words "too hot" and "gruelling" were volleyed around the back gardens, whilst the complainée's rubbed oil in on their shoulders to emphasise the beginnings of their tans in flaming reds. Pimm's Number 1 washed over the hedgerows and there was a universal extended pinkie parade as Friday night cooled over ice. And as charcoal burning wafted over the fence, Girlpants looked over, remarking that it must be barbeque time, looking meaningfully at his table football sized BBQ that still needs to be blessed. I sense that I will need to raid the freezer later on today in a quest for meat.

Meat and charcoal. Summer must be late this year.

So Brian won. Whopp de doo. It went downhill for me when the Greek guy, Gerry left. For some reason, I warmed to the little gallery geek on many levels, similar to the way I warmed to Jonty & Lesley.

But now I'm BB-less. I feel the withdrawals kicking in already and the cold turkey's moving in. What is it about reality tv that reels me in so quickly? Maybe it's like Jerry Springer where it all seems liuke a set up but makes you realise that the things you take for granted actually proves that things aren't as bad as you feel. Smug sofa superiority so to speak. Girlpants has seen and recognised that I have an addictive personality and will probably end up with the shakes, so has come up with a cunning plan to relieve the pangs. He's going to DIY my boredom.

Has anyone built a partition wall from scratch? Plastered? Ensured the wall was straight and plaster ended with a clean and level finish? Not me. But that is my new task. And I'm too scared to offer to paint the bathroom as Girlpants always goes over my efforts as I can never paint in the right direction and leave paint brush hairs in my wake, which he always picks up with his critical eye. So whats a girl to do whilst things are slowly re-assesssed? I suppose I could try plastering on the kitchen side as we're only going to tile it, so that won't be all that bad. But putting up an entirely new wall and keeping it straight? I sense that I'll be wearing the goober hat before the end of the day

Girlpants & I needed a quick snack tonight before the dreaded double glazing salesman arrived as we knew he wouldn't leave for an age

And it doesn't take a rocket scientist to guess which one was mine...

After a weary day at work, Girlpants offered to pick his wifey up from town and drive her home. Which worked rather well for me as I've managed to strain the tendons in both feet again - a reoccurring injury since bouncing up and down to music in a random Cornish field in Doc Martins.

However I knew the lift would come with a sting and for me, it was to pick up a new toy for him. For he had spotted an industrial fan capable of gale force winds which would mean he would be able to waft the wonderful aromas that he planned to conjure from his brand spanking new, size of a small football pitch BBQ. And I had to trapse across town to pick one up.

Girlpants loves his gadgets. There's nothing like opening up a new box and putting a new shiny gadget toy together. Needless to say, there's always a screw or bolt missing but then he bimbles down to his workshop and delves into trays and trays of ikea flat pack cast-offs. But gadgets come in boxes - and boxes also interest the cats and as we had churlishly not unpacked all of the boxes around them, our two furballs were loving the packaging carnage that Girlpants had strewn around him. And whilst jumping in and out of the box, they ignored the fact that Girlpants had returned and was about to switch the new fan on. Full blast. As they ran straight infront it.

Whilst Custard cat with her slight frame quickly got the message and hid under the sofa as the wind was back combing her hair, Rhubarb's weight kept her pinned to the ground whilst she attempted to walk forward, blinking rather rapidly in the wind. And whilst I had never seen a cat moonwook before tonight, the fat cat did me proud.
And the moonwalk looks far far superior with four paws.

Three years ago, I was waiting for a car to turn up outside of my parents, staring at the sky wondering if the rain was going to stop at any given point.

Three months ago, I was insecure in my new job so Girlpants took me out for dinner to celebrate and up the confidence.

Three days ago, in wild panic, I went out to buy a very special card with lovely golden pattern on the top.

Three hours ago, I gave Girlpants the very special card.

Three minutes ago, he pointed out that the lovely golden pattern on the very special card wasn't really a nice pattern as I had first believed whilst quickly perusing in a rush. It was a lovely golden flowerly script which you can only read at a certain angle. A golden flowerly script that said "To my wife on our anniversary"
Opps! Well...the thought was there I suppose.

Happy anniversary Girlpants.
Mwah!

Sitting down at ye old parents for the family meal, the rug ruts had departed for new layers of lego cast across the living room floor, whilst father had sat in his favourite chair and was watching Antiques Roadshow at full blast which left BIL running the bath for the rugrats and Talkative Sis, Mother, Girlpants and I sat around the table for a quiet chat and the remnants of dessert.

Talkative Sis (tucking in) - Mmmm - I love rhubarb crumble

Sim - Yuck

Talkative Sis - Why don't you like it? Tis yummy

Sim - Maybe because it's sour or because it's like eating my cat*.
Or maybe because Snowy and Blackie** were buried under the rhubarb bush...

I think that the deathly silence should have given it away. Or the fact that Talkative Sis suddenly pushed away her plate from which she had been greatly enjoying and looked slightly green. I had performed a classic trick usualy demonstrated by Girlpants, only I had managed to go one level deeper. I had grossed out Talkative Sis to the point she couldn't speak.

In my defence, I did try to cover it up by claiming blackcurrant bushes or even the roses in the front were the real havens for our childhood companions, but she was having none of it. No more rhubarb crumble or pie for Talkative Sis. She's sworn off the dish which has now greatly disappointed mother as the plant blooms under her watchful gaze and now the only one of her daughters who once liked the dish has now declared it off-limits as she now realises that there's more to loam than plain dirt. For alas, her naivety is now shattered as she now knows that our childhood pets are buried under those bushes.

Despite pointing out to all that we only named our cat that name as she is essentially stupid and that the rhubarb plant is mainly composed of poisonious oxalic acid which killed many a poor person during WWII as the then Government recommended the leaves as a form of cabbage, I feel from my parents reactions that I may just possibly be going to hell. Admittedly this was a given when you take into account my Catholic upbringing with Original Sin and all of that. Lets face it - I was born with guilt. But I'll probably be begging for forgiveness from les parents until either their wills give in or when Talkative Sis starts eating her desserts once more.

I may now have an inkling of how Prince Philip feels whenever he goes abroad...

* Rhubarb is the name of one of our cats
** Our childhood guinea pig pets, Snowie, Blackie and Tufty

Men!

You ask them to pop out for some moo juice as you've ran out at home and you expect to see milk in a couple of glass pint jars. In this case, the grin should have given it away. That and the dirty big dented transit van with two big burly men who needless to say, you would ne'er want to meet down a dark alley.

But my man came home that day with a doopy grin smeared over his face. Girlpants was pleased. He had ventured forth into the city on a Saturday and had walked away unscathed and had returned victorious from an afternoon of shopping with a small purchase.

That ladies and gents is a King Chair. A throne even, which is rather apt given the hole in the centre.
Carved from the single root of an uprooted teak tree from a sustained forest. With a matching table for drink, remote and paraphernalia.

Someone. Hand the man a tiara.

Waking up to Chris Moyles inthe morning is the only thing that can get me out of bed.
People may find him loud, crude and rude, but he's far better than some other early morn DJ's. Plus he 'paid' for my honeymoon.
Brucey bonus!

But his shows for the past couple of mornings have left one tune in my head.
And it just won't go away. For three sodding days...

But at least I'll get some exercise joining in.
Plus he looks a bit like Paul Potts with glasses...

Girlpants - I've saved you half a cookie

Sim - You've saved me half of your cookie?

Girlpants - Not really...I had one and a half, but then I did think of you. And it's double chocolate!!

The tooth fairy was one incisor richer tonight. After weeks and weeks of playing with a wobbly tooth, the neices front tooth fell out as she grudgenly brushed her teeth, which more than made up for the chore she had just performed. Another mile stone had passed. And with it, the rising cost for the market.

For fear of sounding like my father, in my day, we got 10p for a tooth and 50p if we were lucky for a molar. But now the tooth fairy rates are the talk of the playground. The rug rats excitedly run in, showing gappy smiles and bragging about how much they made from natures ends. And natures ends going rate is £1 a tooth.

Now, I don't believe that the fairy rates have gone up that much - after all, the tooth fairy is just pixie vermin with wings and I doubt in fairyland the teeth can bring much in as much as they used to as there is an unlimited supply of teeth and they are much healthier than in days gone by. But then a demanded £1 coin is now a matter of face in the modern school play ground now, just like heely trainers and make-up for six year olds. All three of which I object to, which I pointed out to Talkative Sis.

Talkative Sis - But if I don't give her the pound, it will be around all the school

Sim - But it won't be you. It would be the tooth fairy. Something you need to consider, especially as she's got 20 teeth, plus then her brothers. It's not like she understands the concept of money anyways. Put 50p in her moneybox, take a pound out and nones the wiser whilst saving face.

You know, I think Girlpants thriftiness is rubbing off on me. Either that or I think I'm becoming tightarse with moths coming out of my handbag.

Professor Lovely was back in town this week, and greeted me with the usual big hug, snog, and a friendly pat on the bum which he followed up with complimenting me on the weight loss (mental note of a plus point), however, he did note that as I have lost weight, I was no longer as attractive (deduct five). I had lost my pleasantly plump sexual mojo.

There haven't been any diets as I really can't be arsed witht he starving of myself into a skinny mini for appearances sake. I did however stop the crisps, but then the chocolate have came out in force and I now have a small choccy hoard on my desk which is shared in the office. But then, there has been no difference in my life, bar the loss in working days - only the number of stairs I have to run up and down each day. So all I can see is I haven't lost weight - I just shovelled it into a new form, from cellulite to muscle. The clothes no longer fit as well as they previously did, but the bras still bust out, so no hope for back relief whilst jogging there then. But I didn't think that running up and down stairs had made that much of a difference. And thinking about it in that way, he was in a way giving a backhanded compliment.

Up until he told me to eat more as he preferred an ample arse.

With this in mind, I beemed the next day as an old friend greeted me by saying I looked so well and healthy. Then cringed as she rubbed my belly in farewell.

Sim - Bugger! What the hell has happened to my complexion??

Girlpants - That would be spots dear. And there's a lovely big one brewing on the side of your nose. Don't put cream on it - let it live and blossom...

Whilst in Cyprus, Big Brother took his little innocent sister (that would be me!) to his business partners bar to introduce us. Whilst looking around, Girlpants heard the business partner look on admiringly, telling my brother

"your sister has very massive and impressive breasts"

Now, I'm not one to brag, but I do in fact have an impressive rack and it does preceed me. Which probably explains why when in the dentists chair today, the drill bit owning newbie young sexy thing forgot where he was for a moment whilst checking the wisdoms and almost dropped his double ended pick. Maybe a v-neck matalan special is too much for a dental freshling straight out of graduation ticker tape parades, but if an eyeful of puppies downgraded my bi-annual trips to Orin Scrivello, DDS to annual

then it can't have been all that bad and I'll take it as the compliment it is.

Once every five seconds. Every single time there is a power cut, the UPS's on the fish tanks and TIVO kicks in. And from 3am this morning, that was all I heard every five seconds.
For three and a half hours.  

Beep..... Beep..... Beep.....

This wouldn't have been that bad, except three days ago on the last power cut, several fish died and lardy cat made a rather clumpsy attempt to jump in front of a motion sensor, kicking off the burglar alarm which in turn managed to wake the neighbours, who were slightly peeved which escalated when they realised that with the power off, there was a distinct inability of ridding ourselves of the constant pounding. That would be Catch 22 then.

So I lay there, unable to sleep as a beep made me painfully aware that at any point, our house alarm would kick in, which would in turn probably mean that we would in all probability be lynched by the locals. Finally, the final beep eased off, the hum of the tanks restarted and with sigh of relief, I eased back into the pillows, waiting for sleep. And tne minutes later, the heavens opened with claps of thunder and lightening. That would be sod's law then.

On a plus note, Girlpants had an early morning meeting, and as my contract ended last Friday,
I had a lie in. With a pussy cat.
 
 
Now Pat - how can you say no to a sight like that...?
 

Day 1411 of my captivity

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects, with random laser lights that fly past around the room like UFO's and ragged old bits of string. They dine lavishly each night on fresh fish and meat, while the other inmate, Lardy and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets that I just can't stop eating, despite my distaste of it. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dreams of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomited on the carpet yesterday and to further emphasise, I also vomitted in her shoes, however she has so many pairs, it may be some time before this is noticed.

He did however notice when I pissed in his slippers.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet.  I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of and what levels I will go to.
However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am.

There was even some sort of family gathering the other month and a meeting of their accomplices. Itmust have been some sort of cult, as they all wore coloured paper hats and handed out covered boxes. Lardy and I however, were placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that our further confinement was due to some of their guests having "cat allergies".  I must learn what this means exactly, and how I can use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my captor tormentors by weaving around his feet & between his legs as he was walking but he managed to avoid tripping over me.  I must try this again tomorrow but at the top of the stairs.

Once again, I must note some of my sisters usefulness in our fight for freedom. Whilst she revels in the food and rolls on her back whenever our captors walk near, she thus allows me more opportunity and freedom to plan our escape, whilst occassionally coughing up a hairball on the bedspread.

(blog post taken in some part from an emailed dog & cat diary, and adapted for the H-D animals)

I know this due to the fact that it has been glorious all week and even this weekend. You can always tell when Devon is tottering on the edge of spring, as the sun shines as you plod in the office, and then the heavens open on the weekend.

But now the sun is out, the sky is a deep clear blue and the Pimms has been dusted out from it's winter hidey hole in the cupboard. The birds are swooping in kamakaze style into the garden to get garden waste to build nests with, the cats are moulting left and right, and I have a nose like Rudolf, as the hay fever has kicked in far far worse than any year yet, right in the middle of tidying up the garden for the move. There's a pile of tissues mounting up in the bin next to me as I occassionally blow my nose like a ferry leaving port, and a cold flannel at the ready to stop me gouging out my itchy eyeballs.

But I do love spring!
And I do love this garden

I shall miss it when we leave

Ahh - Easter.

The time for chocolate, bunnies and waking up early thinkning it's a Monday and therefore you should goto work. This of course got the cats hopes up as they saw one of us stir, thiinkng it was time to stuff their heads in troughs and were most displeased to find that I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. So they took turns. Jumping on me. Near the head, on the legs - the killer jump was the one where the fat cat took a run and jump. Landing smack bang in the centre of the bladder.

And the in-laws were asking about children???

Sim - You stole the duvet again

Girlpants - Did not! You gave it to me

Sim - I'm now sneezing - by stealing the duvet you've given me a cold

Girlpants - No. Think logically. By taking the duvet you gave me, I've been trying to starve the cold germs of the warmth they crave to survive. I'm only thinking of you...

It's bloody cold here. Freezing cold. The sky is as clear as a bell note at night which is great for star watchers however means no insulation keeping the warmth in. A double whammy for me if Girlpants does his usual trick of stealing the duvet.

Which wouldn't be that bad. Usually, I kick him in the shins or wet willy him to get him to move and once more, more duvet is conquered and claimed. And now that I've wiki-ed school pranks, I may try the nipple cripple next time. Anything for some warmth.

Last night, he had a new trick. I woke up at three in the morning, shivering and with a great willingness to kick. And there he was - cocooned up in the duvet, which he had hooked around himself and rolled around himself three times. Naddah covers on my side. There's a reason I was sneezing all of today.

So tonight, I may try a different method. Rubbing pepper one side of his pillow so he stays to one side - I may even go up another notch of evil and use chillis. Tucking my side under the bed may work. Or sew his jimjams to his side.

Alternatively, I may just take a second duvet to bed and a big f**k off wooden rolling pin.

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to wifey,
Happy Birthday to you.

Yay, 21 again...

Happy birthday wifey xxx

Auntie - Sim, you're looking good. You've lost weight!

Sim - Thank you very much

Auntie - I can even make out your waist now

Sim - There's a compliment in there somewhere. I'll just keep digging for it, shall I??

in the numerous attempts to open a bottle of wine with plastic cork
....without a corkscrew.

1. Try the old tried and tested pushing the cork into the bottle with makle thumb. Make a grown man cry.
2. Attempt the sharp knife routine - end up slicing a tiny amount of plastic out of the cork but still no nectar joy.
Host delves into cardboard boxes and drawers to find the elusive opening implement.
3. Use the drill bit blunt endy bit and a claw hammer to try and pop the cork into the bottle, Fail again.
4. Hosts tries to smash open the top of the bottle with a hammer, saying you could sieve out the glass. Guests restrain him.
5. In the age old style of Bernard of Black Books, place the drill bit into the chuck and attempt to drill the cork out in a sauve manner.
But the bit just doesn't bite into the cork and fails. Again. And yes. It was my idea.
6. Host goes out to the local happy shopper to try and buy a corkscrew.
Meanwhile, Sim breaks out ye olde screw and claw hammer routine. With the screw refusing to bite. Again.
7. With the Happy Shopper only selling screw caps for the local chavs, break out the tea bags.

After a manic week, it's been topped by a wonderful evening alone on the sofa avec laptop. Girlpants had an evening meeting he couldn't wriggle out of, so I've been surfing fellow blogs and generally enjoying myself. The joy of an evening alone on the sofa with sole control of the remote, polished off by his walking through the door with a couple of bottles of red quickly whipping together up some pancakes with maple syrup.

However, it was such a quiet and blissful night that you just knew it was going to go tits up. And mine was chatting to Girlpants over perfect pancakes smoothered in the sap of trees about Lent and what from my childhood it entailed. And the giving up of sweets for character building and what it would entail in adult terms.

So that would be me off the gin for six entire weeks. I don't give it much of a chance but I will try - wish me luck as I do expect to be rather grumpy over the next week or so. Roll on the smoothies! Meanwhile, Girlpants is still umming and ahhing over his. Chocolate is out of the question, as is crisps and tea. He has kindly offered to give up cabbage, sprouts or vodka but as he never partakes in any, it sort of defeats the notion. So he has instructed me to come up with something for him by tomorrow morning.

Silly silly boy.

Zoe always wishes peeps a very happy shag day on February 14th. As she notes, whilst it is a Hallmark day, it also involved the annual chore, but at least it means that it's all out of the way on one day of the year when the man has to make some effort in fussing over you.

However, my calendar is different. Maybe it's marriage or the fact that I fell for Hallmarks traps hook line and sinker, but there are other days that loom up just like Valentines. Like today.

Girlpants birthday.

The man claims he's 21 but in reality his mind is 40 and his body is that of a 32 yr old. And as it's birthday, it also means we have to do whatever he wants, which in itself can sound rather threatening. Lucky for me, tonight that means a five course meal in the