I was going to write a long lenthy post about how the last few weeks have flown and how on the two occassions I had two seconds to rub together, that I did actually write something but then bloody vista kicked me out, losing everything.

But on a much more important matter, I've rearranged the kitchen with a travelcot so that mini-hd can remain in the room without roaming to pastures new, like the wine fridge or the cooker. Which means Sim the barefooted chef met with one of the dining chairs tonight and stubbed her second in middle right toe.

And God - it hurts.

It swollen to the size of my thumb and I can see the beginings of a lovely purple bruise. Although you can't really claim you have a bruise until you have at least two different colours. On a good note, I did have a moment to paint my nails so the fact that I have to slum it around in sandles all week. On a bad note, storms are predicted this week so I'm going to look like a right pleb pushing a pram in the rain in flip flops.

It's that time of year again - reality tv has hit the screens once more, and whilst the cats nuzzle up to us seeking attention after getting over their banishment and flea treatment, Britains Got Talent has hit the screens again. And once more, sweet little childen have joined the masses. And unlike the Cheeky Monkeys last year, whom I found particulary irritating, some of the child acts this year did stand out but the one act tonight who made it to the final judge decision vote broke my heart, as I knew that this terrified yet hopeful 10 year old didn't stand a chance against the impecable dance group, making me queston why young children should be allowed on such a show. And as the vote came in and the judges made their final decision, you could see her hope fade into tears as realisation kicked in.

Then a voice chimed in from the left, quoting that famous South Park episode with the heartless words

"Can you taste the tears Scott??"

Scoot forward three seconds and Girlpants realised what he said, turned to me and realising that he was going to go to hell. Both that coupled with the strong possiblilty that I was most definately going to fulfill my threat of using henna to write the word "twat" on his forehead.

On a good note, it will take about three weeks for Girlpants to scrub the offending word off his head and therefore will have to go to work with a bandana on. And on a brucey bonus note for Keith and Bart, Peter Coghlan aka Mamma Trish will be performaning as Beyonce. And if you're really lucky boys, in a leotard!

Mini-hd is now 33 weeks old. Thats over half a year and she's taken over already.

The living room is a carnage of toys, cushions and foam play mats as she's now rolling and moving backwards in a moonwalk shuffle. And it's taking all my time to chase her and keep her safe, wreastly with stair gates, fireguards and taking the scratches when she pulls clumps of hair out of the cats. Housework? Forget it! I just manage to stay above the washing loads and cooking as she only sleeps for 30 minutes twice in the day, so the rest of the house has gone to pot.

Preening time is something of the past - my eyebrows look like that they've been backcombed, my hair hasn't been cut in 10 months, and forget about moisturising. I'm lucky to be able to slap on some Oil of Olay in the morning. Think Yeti with a tan. I used to feel awful at the Yummy Mummies with their perfect hair, nails and clothes chatting about how their babies all sleep through the night, never cry and are as god as gold fitting into their lifestyles and routines, and whereas this first got me down, I now know that they are, quite frankly lying.

What on earth did I do with my time before? Breakfast in bed is something of the past, and I have no idea how I managed to get out of the house and ready for work by 8:30 each morning. I also have no idea why I almost killed myself working all the hours for a job which effectively ended when I started maternity as effectively, it's not that job I'll be reminising about at the end of my life. Why on earth did I not relish the time I had to myself as now, the 2 occassions I've gone out to the pub, I've felt as guilty as hell. I sense the need to look as mini-hd's schedule and my own and try and make some logical sense out of it with time for me. It needs to be done before I lose my sense of self in a mountain of wipes, cotton wool and dribble. I'm loving the suggested champagne Thursday although I get the feeling that once a week may be deemed to much at the moment - well, until term is over. But then despite my whinging  I'd rather have a happy monkey who interacts at groups and plays than still having the same old routine and making her fit.

But the gin tasted good and it felt ike I was a teen sneaking out for the night.

I've just spent the last 30 minutes writing a long blog explaing absence and parenthood whilst reflecting on my own childhood. And the blog broke.

Must be because I forgot to use it regularly...

For some reason, I thought it a wonderful idea to give up something glorious for lent. Not that I had to, but because I thought it would do my character some good. My beloved gin. that's right - I've extended my tipple ban to the end of lent on my favourite drink. This does not however exclude wine, vodka or cocktails unless they are gin based, however we're not long into 40 odd days and I'm already pining.

This is somewhat remarkable as I've not had a gin since last January 2008. You would have thought that I would have gotten over it all by now however the fact that I am now allowed alcohol kinda rubs the salt in the proverbial wound as well as the shallow papercut.

When I was younger, I wouldn't necessarily binge drink but I would indulge inthe 3 units a night which the Government is currently running a vigorius campaign to dissuade women from a large glass of wine a night. And once a month or so, I would have what I would call ribenia week, where no alcohol would pass my lips. Maybe now in my more mature outlook on life, this is now what I'm partaking in. But only with gin. A decision I now regret but will stick to. Promise. I will really try. Right after some Langage Farm pseudo G&T ice-cream.

Give a girl a break - I've already had a year off...

Mini-hd is now 24 weeks old and is currently being weaned in her bumbo. By feeding herself.

Thats right - baby led weaning where you cook finger food until it's soft enough and then let baby loose. Which means for the first time in months, Girlpants and I can have a meal at the same time at the same hot temperature. Fabbo!

Unfortunately due to mini-hd's mamma being another year older (I cut my leg off and counted the rings to check), this also mean that mini-hd was introduced to chocolate cake. But only a smidgen. And under parental supervision that she only had a sniff, as the last thing I need is for her to go off her broccholi at this stage. She's already gagging at cabbage. Like father, like daughter...

On another note, I now unfortunately know all the songs to the characters from In The Night Garden. However, to counteract this, I did manange to find Trumpton, Camberwick Green, Danger Mouse and Mr Benn on dvd. She may be young, but she's young enough to be brainwashed. She will convert...

I was going to blog about a wonderful day out at the aquarium with mini-hd, Girlpants, Prof Dr HOS and mini-Prof Dr HOS, looking at big bad sharks, starfish and Snorkle, followed by some playtime with mini-hd's Godmummy. But then I thought I could start a serious debate about the wildcat strikes that are breaking out in the north of England. But then Girlpants sent me this:

Which leads to another question. Why does Girlpants want to know where he can find a leotard like that?

I ask you?

As I slowly struggle to get mini-hd in more of a routine so I can tweak her day to suit mine, I'm left wondering what on earth I did with my time before she came along.

To help my snoring wonder go to sleep, I've taken to reading a page from my current read outloud to her each evening. And whilst many may think that she doesn't look like me, she certainly has my sense of humour and outlook on life, as I had to wrestle my MBIAT book back tonight.

Plus if I read to her in a singsong voice, it helps the little cherub on her way to slumberland, as so, all the while instructing my eikle one, as I like to think of it as starting her education early. After all, it is a guide... .

Currently at page 110, she has taken to chewing pages which she finds especially funny, her favourite currently being pg47. Not something I was especially please to find out as I may have to buy another copy. In fact, I may even have to raid the kitty to pay for it.

After all, whats mine is mine...

I would like to beg that I would have blogged before now, however mini-hd has gone through what one can only class as a growth spurt. From a tiny curled up thing, she now looks like a 4 month old. Going from this:

to this:

Which is apt as she'll be 16 weeks from 0330 tomorrow morning. He's the only man I know that can get a 12 o'clock shadow 45 minutes after he has shaved.

And yes - Girlpants had already shaved that morning.

Christmas was large but fun - 11 people in total at ours with Girlpants and myself cooking from scratch whilst trying to entertain the smallest member of the clan. Although I didn't manage to get the present I wanted for Gilrpnats - a shotgun license as apparently being a new dad isn't a good enough reason for Devon & Cornwall Constabulary and have a word with yourself missy, so a bumper pack of Futurama had to suffice. Mini-hd got a stocking stuffed with rubber ducks and Larry the Lion in it, whilst family were on strict instructions for no big presents. So when Uncle Toerag (Girlpants brother) turned up with a hughmongous dead muppet, it didn't go down especially well to the point where Girlants and I are considering sending him a squirrel army in the post for his next annual celebration of birth.

New Years was the tradiationally watching of Hootananny on the BEEB, whilst mini-hd snored so that the moses basket rippled with the soundwaves and Girlpants tried to catch up on work, whilst youngsters on the street outside let off fireworks.

So happy new 2009 everyone! it's somewhat belated for festive wishes but I do hope that you all are rested, with  I hope that you all have a wonderful new year filled with mucho joy, happiness and high spirits. Mines a gin!

The cold has seeped back into the west country and with it, the coughs and sniffles (which means ladies and gents, that once more Girlpants has got man flu and he and mini-hd have been playing ping pong giving it to each other) so it is a time to wrap up warm.

I know - a ridiculous outfit but I couldn't resist!

With the cold snap has come the realisation that there is just over a month to Christmas. And I am not prepared. My cards are not done, not presents have been bought however the goose is in the freezer. If I get a moment to use my laptop, then my first thought is to blog and the next is to maybe peruse Amazon in the vain hope that they haven't sold out of the pressies that I need to buy. I had hoped to write this entry at 4am this morning after getting mini-hd winded and waiting for her to settle, but that never happened. Her settling that is. Poor little mite finds it hard to breathe though her snotty nose which also affects feeding. And meanwhile, Girlpants has been languishing upstairs in bed, hoping for some of the meagre sympathy that I used to bestow on him. Which I did as I held his nose whilst pouring a lemsip down his throat.

Well - it works with giving medicine to the cats.

The minor disruption in our life is currently taking over with sleepless nights and projectile vomit, whilst I've lost my ability to get ready and be out of the house before 11 in the morning. How crud is that? But thank God Sky is currently rerunning Bones and Stargate in the morning.

Like others, I've fallen by the wayside when is comes to blogging, which admittedly has happened too often for my own personal liking. What with finances, clingy whinging child, house guests and trying to keep ahead of householdy stuff, time has flown away. And I'm left thinking what on earth did I do with my time before and morepertainent, what on earth is happening to my time now?

I'm still not allowed to drive and although I have popped to the shops, walked around the park and have been into town a couple of times, so it's not like I'm going out much. Occassionally, I'll sleep in the afternoon when mini-hd is sleeping just to catch up, but I just can not see where the days go. I actually managed to sweep the floors today as I couldn't tell the difference between the tumbleweeds of fur or the cats themselves. I even had time to wash my hair this morning and am now considering cutting my long tresses off to save time on brushing it.

Although then, Joe Bloggs on the street may confuse both my daughter and myself for boys. Were it not for my impressive rack that is, which my daughter tends to cuddle and conceal for both my dignity and her own gluttony...

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 local posh nosh establishment. Five rather large courses so have been starving myself all day so that I can sup in pure pleasure, in an outfit which I will ensure has an elasticated waist. The birthday boy has already told me that he refuses to wear the rather large birthday boy badge that I try to make him wear each year, so I will have to settle for him to be served dessert whilst being serenaded by tuneless Happy Birthday's, whilst the rest of us try to avoid the heat from the 32 candles I have purchased especially for the event. After all, there had to be some sort of embarressment involved, doesn't there??

A little less than a year ago, I blogged about one of Girlpants colleagues who was trying to encourage us to have mini-me's. 

Professor Lovely has his own business, works for a living and also consults in the uni. I met him in the first few months when Girlpants & I got together and basically we were cocky (via conversation) to each other. This has continued to this day - we're both part of the furniture however we jokingly rant, take the piss and basically have a go at each other in a friendly kinda way.

But I do love the guy, to the point tonight that I slurringly asked him to be Godfather of my unborn babies in my drunken haze. And in all seriousness, he looked at me and said:

"You do realise I will drag both you and them to church..."

Catholicism. You can run but you can't really hide from it

quiz night in the pub directly across the road from the office. After discussing various strategic drinking methods, for some sorry reason, we all decided that going en masse immediately after work and mixing our drinks was a great idea, which of course would mean we would ensure our winning with a fantastic score.

In truth, the several terminator cocktails and inability to stand up straight may have had something to do with our abysmal score. Or the fact that most of us hadn't eaten properly during the day and then left the our carefully prepared path of strategic drinking for one of tastebuds. Or the fact that we were in the pub for nearly four hours waiting for the quiz to start. Eventually, our attempt to take the £100 prize money disintergrated into a farce as stunner data pixie and finance pixie were arguing over answers during the double point round, talking over the actual questions, whilst personally, I thought that I was rather outstanding, yelling insults over at the quizmaster telling him that maybe a few seasons watching QI may be in order whilst stumbling making my way to the little girls room.

And when I returned, as I smugly sat back, stunner data pixie suddenly pointed out that I had had toilet paper trailing out from the back of ye olde work trews for the last 15 minutes, asking if I had managed to swipe the quiz answers from the now dishearted man on the mic, and if so, please share...

After making him watch the influx of reality tv (hello, my name is Sim and I'm addicted to CBB and want to give the coen of witches a piece of my mind on bullying...), tonight it was the first episode of American Idol, recorded in Seattle tonight

"I think most of them have they've sat on their internal tuning forks because they sound like...."

There aint nothing like a chicken guy....

Am so sorry I've been gone for a while, but you know what I always say.... My name is Sim and I am an addict to reality tv. Sad I know. But I love it.

But yes, damn that typo below - did I really type w$nker? Zoe summed it up far far better than I. Sad poor lonely Hellen Man. But then again, he is named like a girl.

My inability to post within a week has been due to the fact that I was absolutely fuming at the bullying on CBB - Pat has posted on this one, but she is more eloquent and dignified in her manner on posting on the subject than what I may have ever been. But then again, I do imagine Pat with perfect hair, perfect dress and dignified beyond belief. She is in fact a lady, and quite probably gardens in her tiara. And if anyone is visiting her via the random button blogger button, she's on the right favourite blogs menu - please go visit and tell her how lovely she is.

And whilst you're browsing, don't forget to visit Zoe at the same time for being one of the wittiest women I know and love. And buy from her shop. Fab things! And I still have to send her proper cheese but I'm a tad afraid that it may get blown away with the gale force winds...

But yes - CBB. The bullying on that programme was disgraceful - Jade "alleged lyposuction" keep fit queen and her coven were an absoltuely disgrace and on some nights I found myself fuming at how angry I was at it all. Which is a new for me. Keeping myself awake by being mad at myself. But isn't it a shame how we are now on the international scene for all the wrong reasons.

Meanwhile, I note that Keith has moved again - now sir! Have you got that fed up of beta-blogger already? Mind it does sound like medication.

And Pidge. Look up sweetie. On the right - you are so linked already! ;)

Even above Chris Moyles. You know you love it, you dirty boy you...

Well, both Girlpants and I are on our way out now for those £5 turkey bargains, bubbly and beer in the shop and to deliver some pressies en route. Needless to say, I don't think as my first day back on the plonk after over a week will leave me in much of a state later, so unless you find me online in a somewhat inebriated state attempting to type in a straight line, may both Girlpants and I, the stinky fat cat, the mouse allergic cat, Talkative Sis and family all wish you a fantastic Christmas. And remember - if you eat enough roughage today of all days, then you may get a present after midnight from a little visitor...

That's the sound of silence as The Aussie has moved out after seven weeks. Whilst it would be nice to enjoy this new unique sound and sleep a whole night through each night, the silence is currently being murdered by the wails of a dying fan, lurking somewhere in the back of my laptop.

I guess that's the price from having two rather long haired cats who are follwed around by tumbleweeds of their own fur, who like to sit on top of desks and laptops as they basically generate warmth in the chill of winter whilst waving their tails around the vent and shedding hairs which then clog up the cooling system. It basically means that I'm slightly scared to actually boot up the laptop as the grinding aounds like something being ripped out of the innards of this machine that holds my life. CV, email, favourites... Losing this laptop would be almost as bad as losing your mobile, wallet and keys in one night.

Memo to self - must never forget to back up....

1. Wake up at 5:15 to the sound of someone making a frantic attempt to clean their room, which 10minutes before, historically would have looked like a bomb hit it.
2. Dose back to sleep and the tap tap of someone quickly making their way down the stairs
3. Wake up the sound of murmuring voices - long distance phonecall maybe?
4. Listen to the sound of the downstairs curtains being pulled back and the patio door being open and shut every 5 minutes. Cue flashbacks to student smoking days.
5. Suddenly realise that the voices are getting louder
6. Suddenly realise that there are two voices
7. Suddenly realise that The Aussie has brought a friend home
8. And is drinking your wine (which the dear boy has now replaced)
9. Listening carefully, you logically reason that one of them is consciencious smoker hence the patio door is being open and shut
10. Listening carefully makes you realise that Girlpants has been grinding his teeth for some time
11. Which then makes you wake up. 2 hours before you need to be at work and after less than 6hours sleep
12. Wind yourself up into a hissy fit, while Girlpants sits on you to calm yourself down for the next 45 minutes
13. Come downstairs and use the f-word several times whilst making your point that noise et ergo mens voices travel
14. Then realise your hair looks like crap
15. And that you have a spot on your chin
16. Quietly wonder to yourself as to why spots continue after your teens into your thirties??
17. Turn around nicely to the young lady sitting petrified on the sofa and wish her a good morning, whilst she tries to unpeel herself from fear induced coma into the cushions
18. Be accused by cuz that you are a "racialist" blaming his voice as he's Aussie, as therefore his voice is deep and it isn't his fault
19. Remind cuz that it is his fault as he's a man whose balls have dropped. Which makes the nice young lady laugh.
20. Pay £4.75 into the swear box for potty mouth behaviour but walk away with the knowledge that despite the fact you looked like shite and dragged through the hedge backwards, you still made her laugh.

Which would have made far far more of an impression... ;o)

Girlpants has a new trick. He started to sneak up behind me, grabbing the boobs and then tries to honk them.

So I've now got my own new trick. It involves a wooden spoon kept at the ready, aiming for the knuckles and swiping hard.

Custard cat has been off in sorts of late. I say off in sorts. I mean the cow has had her true affections subverted and has been snuggling into the lower regions (legs!) of The Aussie, traitorous bloody animal! But two days ago, I had notice that she had a big lump under her right chin and a thick lip. So, needless to say, I had thought that she was either hunting again, or sorting her patch out with her new collar bling. But with that big lump, of course, the mummy cat worried and so organised an enjoyable day trip out to the vet hospital.

Imagine my heart sinking to the ground when Mister Vet told me it wasn't fighting. Nor catching herself. All sorts of bloody images ran through my mind as I tried to fathom out what was wrong, thinking of the worst as he rechecked her history. But nay - all wasn't as dire as I had thought. In fact, her big lump and clingyness was due to more. My poor cat, Custard the mouse juggler, Custard the brave, Custard the Robin Murderer, Custard the hunter, Custard the slim*

is allergic to mice.

Really! I ask you...!!??

Only I could own that cat...

* Custard (the Slim) was according to the vet, fat with a bloody big belly. So I don't know which cat he was really examining. Maybe Rhubarb switched with her before we took her. Even so, if Custard is fat, it does mean that basically Rhubarb is on an even more stringent diet....

Admittedly, like couple of the bloggers I read daily, I've been neglecting my little corner for the last month or so, with sporadic postings, but then with holding down a job, trying to build a bathroom, trying to sort out surprise parties for father-in-laws and what it being a little over a month since The Aussie came to stay with us, it's been a tad hectic, but then I do think that during that time, we've learnt alot.

The job has learnt that I rarely wear jeans, make a mean cup of tea and will charge money for potty mouths with no exceptions. Father has learnt that there should be an established colour scheme to a bathroom (7 colours simply will not do!) and that if we were to stay in St Ives overnight again, that we will call ahead and book a hotel.

Meanwhile, the Aussie has learnt that we bolt lock the door every night, unless he's out - but then that has on occassion confused him, usually when he's drunk and only has shrapnel in his pocket ;) Girlpants however, has learnt that you can't really answer the door in a dressing gown that barely covers the family jewels as the postie may not appreciate it. And that also that three people do make a bit of a clutter, so it wasn't just me creating that mess in the house.

As for me, I've learnt to take it a little bit more easier. Or to bawl my eyes out when it gets a little too much and then Girlpants swirls on his cape and comes to the rescue, usually with a double G&T in tow to calm the nearves. Either that, or he snaps, which just makes for an ackward five minutes. I've also learnt that no matter how much I season or cook to British perfection, you can be guarenteed that unless it's a spicy Chinese or Italian, the Aussie will add some type of condiment. In the past four weeks, amongst other meals, I have created such spectacular crusine such as roasti topped luxery fish pie (tomato ketchup), Argentinian rump steak (smoothered in 0.5cm of tomato ketchup), white wine chicken casserole (sweet chilli sauce) and ye olde classic of roast chicken with trimmings and lashings of gravy (mayo).

Just goes to show that those home economic lessions and Delia books have gone to good use!! Either that, or Australian males can become pregnant.

I've also learnt not to mention the Ashes - it will be an interesting couple of days ahead...

Woke up on Tuesday morning, feeling worse than a badgers arse and sneezing my way through a packet of mansized. Even worse, I woke up thinking that it was Thursday. Boy - was that a disappointment.

Given that I wasn't suffering from the feared man flu (which some non-female journalist from that a well known bloke mag has claimed is true - any excuse I say!), I dragged my sorry arse into work so that the pennies could keep rolling in. Having said all this and with the double whammy of the disappointment of it being a whole two days earlier than thought, my emotions were running high, tiredness kicked in as did the drugs, and all in all, it became a bit of a roller coaster where I was either on top of the world or close to tears. Either way, the data was blurring as I swayed between the two.

This entire week was summed up rather humouriously by Vernon Kay whilst interviewing a sex therapist come murder mystery actress on a rather well known radio station today, talking about why women say no to late night amour, whilst trying to cope in todays world:

Sex Therapist - The main problem is that women these days have to wear too many hats - that of mother, colleague, wife, daughter...

Vernon - Women should never wear too many hats - it would prolong the strip tease process

So the Auzzie got a double whammy yesterday. Firstly, he managed to open up a bank account without any of the charges or jumping through hoops and then, the first bar we walked into offered him a job as they were

"looking for Aussies"

Never claim that the Walkabout isn't authentic!

So to celebrate this joy and the fact that we had got chewed out at work that day as one of the data pixies had been caught on the banned internet that all temps can not touch, we decided to partake in a few jars, which at £3.40 for two pints appeared to be a rather reasonable charge. And also allowed a bit more change for a couple of others.

Roll on a couple of hours and 1830. Girlpants was sitting in front of us, asking if we were ready to leave yet. For some reason, I thought it would be a very excellent idea to down my last pint and run to the bus stop with him, and therefore accelerating those little alcoholic molecules around the bloodstream a bit more. Cuz had a better idea, slowly sipping his last beer and leisurely walking to catch up with us. However, by that time, I was home and banned from the kitchen. But for some reason, Girlpants had thrust more G&T's in front of me as I was transfixed by the laptop, leaving random comments on others blogs (many apologies to all concerned) and pushing my food around my plate.

On the bright side, there was not a whiff of hangover....

Leaving the office today, I causually mentioned that old adage to one of the data pixies...

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do.." phnar pnar

To which she replied "I wouldn't give a BJ to a dog, but that's about my limit"

Speechless? We were gobsmacked at the sheer nastiness of it all. So we made her put 50p in the swear box for her potty mind and mouth.

Not so much of a festival here, but the oiks have taken it in all bad faith. Tonight, I avoided the hoodies on my way home, throwing stink bombs and rotton eggs. In one part of town, fireworks were used as the tricks, aimed at passing cars and reluctant homes, whilst in another, three young inventive children decided to use black bin liners for their costumes. With out thinking to make air holes. The local granny population panicked!

As for little olde moi, I stayed indoors, curtains drawn and gin in hand, whilst cuz watched the football, drowning out any knocks on the front door. I'll wipe the egg shells off the front tomorrow.

The day after the wedding, Girlpants and I took the day slowly. It was our last day in Cyprus so we decided not to rush, take it easy and be refreshed for the next day. A boat trip with MIL, lounging around the pool and then dinner with Big Brother (BB) was decided. By 8, we were refreshed, hungry and relaxed, waiting for BB to turn up with butterflies and nerves.

I rarely get to see my BB - he's emigrated out here with his wife, SIL, and they both like their own space, which is quite understandable and sometimes something I try to do. It's probably why he's a tad scared I'll put his home number on our fathers speed-dial - a constant threat to prevent him dobbing me in for various acts of stupidity. But saying that, I adore my BB and make the most of every single moment I spend with him.

As we haven't seen each other for a while, BB and I were going to make the most of the evening. We started off in his local, where one of his best friends complimented me on my chest ("Great tits!") leaving BB agog. Then, SIL joined us and off we trotted for supper, followed by walking off the meal by walking to another local and then back to BB's for tipples. At which point, Girlpants realised it was 3am and that we had to fly and drive home that very day and that somehow we had gained yet another 3 litres of alchol that had to be packed somewhere, which as I had persuaded Girlpants that we needed a new cheap case, was not going to be a problem!

So basically, on 4 hours sleep, we packed, had breakfast, did a touch more shopping and then made it back to the hotel for drinks with MIL, a scenic lift to the airport from BB and a drink by the sea. By 2am Friday, we had made it back to the UK, driven home in torrential rain and combated with London signage and drivers, returning to a shed load of laundry and cleaning to do as a certain Australian was coming to stay that weekend and work was starting again on the Monday.

Cream crackered? That Friday, we drank wine in the afternoon and watched the box. After all, officially, we were still on holiday....

So the marriage is done and dusted. The one reason we came over here - not at all for the sun shine or the week away. No siree! The bride looked stick thin and beautiful and the groom dashing - bar the damned silly tattoo that he had carved into his right upper arm and looked like it was making it's way down to his hand. But they did make a beautiful couple. A completely shagged couple as the drunk carusings from the night before had made it's mark.

Especially on the head of the mother of the bride, who had inadvertantly created a bump there the night before. For some reason, hardly anyone drank much on the wedding day, despite the fact that it was free.

Photos coming soon - as soon as I have photoshopped myself into a size twelve.

We're packing up and driving up to London today - Girlpants brother is getting married in Cyprus so we fly out at some silly hour in the morn. The trip will test us on different levels; I'll be without the internet and therefore will probably get withdrawal symtons and no blog updates for the next week. And as our hotel is in Ayia Napa, clubbing capital of Europe, Girlpants - the man who was born and hit 40 and is proud of it, and therefore doesn't think that he'll be sleeping much in the next week.

I once managed to get him in a nightclub. We were going out with one of my bridesmaids and her old boyfriend, plus old boyfriends shipmates. We were dancing and drinking back cocktails and beers, whilst Girlpants stood there and sipped his lemonade and lime through a straw, looking like Rodney and trying hard not to grimace each time as the shipmates slapped him hard him on the back, telling him that they'll look out for him that night. Funnily enough, he's never been back into a club and is not necessarily looking forward to being smack bang in party land.

So in the midst of work and dragging our heels, the house has to be cleaned, the fish water changed and the bag packed without forgetting anything for once. Time is of the essence. Which is probably what I was trying to tell myself last night as I attempted to wax my legs after a tipple or two last night. With all good intentions, I thought that I would be saving myself time the next day, yet this morning I awoke to find the cat blanket that usually stays on top of the bed, stuck to my legs, making the legs furrier than they were before. Which no doubt will make me the envy of the Cypriot beaches.

Yesterday was never going to be a dull day - an old uni friend, Jim was coming down to give a talk at the uni and it felt like a Friday. We were going out for beer, take out and a catch up. It felt like a Friday and we were having a laugh in the office. The sun was shining and it felt like summer so I casually mentioned how this was unusal for this time of year which was usually rainy.

Fast forward 6 hours, two beers and one presentation later and it was flooding down. I was feeling slightly worse for wear, strenuously chewing on an orbit hoping it would mask the beer fumes, whilst Girlpants stood dripping next to me, drinking his lime and lemon with a straw. And outside the heavens opened, thunder and lightening. And Jim siddled up to me and said

"Trouble - you just had to say it"

Hmm - I suppose I did... Especially as I was the only one with a brolly :D

There's a couple of old games that wanders its way around the country and occassionally rears it's head in conversation, especially when it's just after lunch and you really don't want to get on with more work. There's the classic eye spy, word association, the have you ever game and then the classic fantasy porn name game. Usually constructed from your first pets name and mothers maiden name, they can create thousands of humilating names that could potentially don a seedy covered dvd in the back room of a Soho sex shop, on the rack to the left of the whips and and gimp masks.

I'm rather proud of my FPN - Tigger Palencia. Much better than if we had named our goldfish when they were still surviving in a titchy tiny small tank, until our killer cat came along. And I still miss that killer cat. The data elves cringed when they admitted theirs, including Floppy Smart, Adele Shuttleworth which cinjured up images of ping pong, and College Girlie, who ended up transgendered as Ben Smart.

Whereas, as he can't remember any of his early pets names and in his words, Girlpants would be that world reknowned adult star, Dead-Pet Bibby.
I can just see his name in lights right now.

Today dragged it's heels slowly but surely after 8 hours of boredom and data entry in a room low on oxygen due to altitude. Imaginary cricket, football and eye spy didn't help the brains ooze out of the ear drums and which turned decidely worse as I found myself suffering cramps after a week of running up and down the attic stairs. At which point, the conversation turned to footwear.

The guy in the office has owned his new pair of brogues for the last two months, but in yesterdays downpour, they decided to split in the rain, just above the toe line. With the downpour, he was squelching around the office, with the rest of us feeling sorry for him. One of the girls had been wearing killer fuck me boots as she had been to interviews. Great to see her in, but hell on the stairs and stopped all feeling in her big toes before to long, so she spent the rest of the day in her socks and avoiding the wet patches the rest of us had dripped on the carpet. Whereas I was smug in the notion I had good old reliable shoes on. Not just any old shoes. I've finally given into the notion that over the years, I've royally stuffed my feet up and marched, much to my fashion shame, into Scholl.

It all trails back to my days of dance and bouncing up and down in the Cornish field to dance tracks in doc martens several years ago and I sprained both tendons in my feet. Which means that they now ache if I walk too much, ache if I wear the wrong shoes or even ache if I dally with the idea of wearing heels. I realise that by announcing this, I'm basically saying that my ballet days are over and that I'm admitting that I'm getting a touch older. Especially when that the dear podiatrist took one look at my beautifully manicured feet and told me that I would never be accepted in the army. Like the khaki would even look good on me. So, due to my feet having a tendancy to be lazy on the arches, they are now in training for a couple of months. Like braces on teeth, I now have special training inserts. However, unlike braces, these training aids are hidden like a dirty secret. That is, until I kicked off my shoes this afternoon. The cringing secret was out as one of the trainer's flipped out of my sleek sexy work shoes onto the floor...

My own fault but much to my delight in my fevered illness, Yaxlich had tagged me for a movie meme that has just started it's way across the blogs, which gives me something more to blog about than my lying on my death bed and waiting for Gregorian chants to echo through the house. However, back to the task in hand... movies - ironic on a day when Girlpants criticised me for not wishing to watch a movie since last Christmas, to which I pointed out that we had Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the real version as opposed to pseudo Gene Wilders version). Apparently though, I have made him watch it too many times so maybe this meme will give him some insight and some suggestions for our next sofa night in

...right after our Star Wars night

1. The last movie you saw in a theater, and current-release movie you still want to see.
The last movie was Pirates of the Caaribean II, however it was a bit of a cop out with Pirates III already being in the pipeworks for next year, however after missing the first of this trilogy in the cinema and persuading myself that it was rubbish, only to wear the dvd out, it had to be done. I did however, also want to see the new superman, but given the cost of watching movies these days, I may have to save up all my pennies and wait for the dvd release at Christmas.

2. The last movie you rented/purchased for home viewing.
Rent? Purchase?? Hmmm - Sim has not done that for a long time...she usually borrows from her friends and then gives them back after 1 or 2 weeks months. Does it count if I buy for others?? Then the answer would be Sing Along Sound Of Music for mother. But if it was for little old moi, then it would have to be The Goonies.

Sometimes, you just can't beat the 80's.

3. A movie that made you laugh out loud.
Most funny movies i.e. American comedies make me cringe instead of laugh. I couldn't watch Anchorman and I fell that I have to be under 15 years old to watch Legally Blonde. However Peter Sellers is always a good bet either make me cringe or laugh - Dr Strangelove being the classic. Also, Woody Allen's "Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask" had me laughing until I weed a little. Oooh - and Delicatessen. Fantastic movie with a great squeaky bed scene.

4. A movie that made you cry.
Am such a wuss that I cry every single time Satine dies in Moulin Rouge. Funny that - you would have thought that by now I would have learnt, but every single time, the lump starts to build up and I start blubbing. Maybe I should watch Bambi a few more times...

5. A movie that was a darling of the critics but you didn't think lived up to the hype.
Titanic. What a huge amount of parlaver and a pile of old gash. And if I could shove more than one movie into room 101, then I would also have to point an accusory finger at Artifical Intelligence, despite the fact that eye candy Jude Law is in it. I made the mistake of buying this, and now have it hanging in the garden to scare off the crows. Bah!

6. A movie that you thought was better than the critics.
I never really pay any attention to the critics so don't really know many critiques of movies. I know that DUne was panned, so that woyuld be the only major flick that came to mind, but only when it scrubbed up and revamped....which does kind of kills the point. However, as in most cases, the book is so much better than the movie.

7. Favourite animated movie.
Perfect Blue. Classic Hitchcock type storyline, and for once, anime without (much) gratutious violence. However, it does mess with your head as you try to understand just what the hell is going on!! - but once you're into it, your hooked.

8. Favourite Disney Villain.
After Girlpants told me that I couldn't choose Walt, it has to be the evil Scar - killing his brother and usurping the crown from his nephew. Classic Shakespeare.

9. Favourite movie musical.
Very non-PC, but at the moment, Jerry Springer the Opera is the epitomy of black comedy opera. When it opened in the theatre here, there were five protestors outside whilst the house was packed for a full week.

10. Favourite movies of all time (up to five)
And in no particular order :

Star Wars
I still can't believe that until I made him start to watch this the other day, Girlpants had never watched it. I did consider using him as a guinea pig and made him watch it from episode 1 instead of episode 4, but then decided that would be too harsh on him. So far, we've made it to episode 1 and am just about to gear myself up for whining Anakin before the crushing finale. And all Girlpants can say is "it's alright". The man just doesn't get it!

Monty Python - Life of Brian

Heat
There is one scene in this movie, continuous for 5 minutes. Total shot out. Plus it has two of the worlds greatest actors combines - Pacino and De Niro. How could I ignore?

Alien (all four movies)
Another one I have to make Girlpants watch. What did happen to this man's childhood/teenaged years/20's?? Speaking of which, if there are any classics which you think Girlpants should watch, please fell free to nominate

Withnail and I
I'm with Yaxlich on this one, however I have watched this til the end a couple of times. However, due to partaking in the game, can not reasonably say that I actually remember the story line. I may have to play again only with a jug of ribenia one day. Ribenia made out of fortified blackcurrents. And built in hangover cures.

Tag Five Bloggers To Complete The Meme
Oh bugger - they will hate me for this. So here it goes...TAG! If you're reading this (and that means you!), you're it! That's right - you know who you are!!!

And I'll be visiting all your blogs in the next couple of days to check..

Am ill again - am feeling worse than a proverbial badgers arse and am not impressed with my body for once again rebelling against me in this manner. Ignoring the fact that my chest hurts, the hot and cold flushes and suffering more than two hours of hiccups the other night, so I'm also in pain. Add to that the taste of bitter disappointment. You see, tonight, I was supposed to be going up to Windsor to meet Boris, a good friend from overseas whom I haven't seen for a couple of years. The hotel and restaurant was booked and I was due to buy tickets this morning as British Rail is actually cheaper on the day now, and I actually allowed my self to sit back, enjoy and start to relax. What a mistake...

Why is it when you start to relax, your body takes a slow look around and decides it's time to break down, allowing all those little germs and lurgies you've been fighting off for the last few months to take over?? It's like those mornings when you stand there one morning thinking that your complexion actually looks great for a change so inevitably, you wake up with a spot, smack bang somewhere on your face. So not only do I feel rough, I have spots. At 30...ish. Thank God it's on my cheek as it can blend in with the freckles, but then there's still that initial angry red as it blossoms into life.

When it rains, it bloody pours.

Bart has been having trouble with his decorating. Not the accidental hatch from the nursery to the master bedroom incident, but with his cats wanting to become interior designers of their own. Oh how this reminds me of our little minxs. My own fault. Girlpants was allergic to our four legged friends before we met but kittens I wanted and kittens we got. Two to keep each other company whilst we both worked. Such commitment in pseudo children for two people who had just started living together. Thus our first few weeks together consisted of sneezes and mopping up cat pee off the floorboards.

But far from making this home our own, it has most definately become the cats empire. The half snarl and looks of disdain should we dare to want to go into the bedroom which quite clearly is their domain; Rhubarbs habit of rolling on her back, tartily asking for more food when quite clearly she's on a diet, and thus snubbed, she goes and rubs her bum in the clean clothes pile; early evening, Custard plays catch with her tail. ignoring the wine glasses, plates and wine bottles which had been placed out on the table for supper. And when she's displaced from the bed because our sleep patterns disturb her, she goes out for the night only to come back in, sleeping in the wash basin just before Girlpants shave. Because she can.

Whilst their routines dominate our lives, they, like Bart's have also tried to make a mark on the home. It took us two weeks to fully decorate the spare room. Insulate, lining paper, matching the patterns up. Two days after it had been finished, one of our feline squatters came in and clawed their way up to the window shelf, insulation poking out and the rather expensive wall paper lying in shreds on the floor. Once we realised this, we slowly began to appraise the house, noticing that not only had they shed enough hair to kill three hoovers, but also the wall paper had been clawed from behind the curtains in various rooms and the carpet had been ripped out from the bottom of the stairs, it's reminants tumbleweeding through the lounge on our return. And whilst this all happens, they look on, Rhubarb on the armchair and Custard on Girlpants laptop, unashamedly demanding their next meal, as if butter wouldn't melt.

So how do you deal with disgruntled cats that are used to having their own way? We've tried Supernanny's naughty step but they just ignore us and walk away - they really don't care if we take their favourite toys from them, and coming down to their level to give them a good talking to results in a quick snap on our noses. Food and sleep is the only things they really care about, but depriving them of those would be feline cruelty. However moving from those rather more well known brqands to supermarkets own may cause some dismay and severe strops. But then, maybe we should just give in to the fact that they will always dominate the house until rug rats start running in the hallways. Which means their empire will last for a little while longer.

I've been tagged by that woman in Belguim on the only day this week when I've woken up confuddled and slightly worse for wear - damn that last gin! But then it is my first meme which is a milestone for me, however I find these days that I'm usually far too busy being unemployed and a kept woman to pick up a real book, whereas last summer, I was down the library each week. However...

1. One book that changed your life - the hardest question first.
Erm...bugger. The most obvious is the Bible as I was surrounded on all sides by happy clappies at Uni and as a child, my parents forced me to go to mass every single Saturday night as a child causing me to miss out on some serious training. Walking to mass interupted that most important of times - slap bang in the middle of Wonder Woman, where every time she spun around to change, I would also. And fly straight into the china cabinet. My bouncing skills were severely under-developed by the time I needed them for the Circle Line pub crawl. I would probably have far far fewer beer scars had I been allowed to stay home and watch either Wonder Woman or Supergran.

2. One book that you've read more than once.
An Instance At The Fingerpost, by Iain Pears. Four books in one, interpreting one story in four different ways. Needless to say, I plump for the more logical approach.

3. One book that you'd want on a desert island.
Outdoor Survival Handbook by Ray Mears. Apparently, it's indispensable in those scenarios.

4. One book that made you laugh.
The Liar, by Stephen Fry and starring Professor Donald Trefusis - it has me rolling in the aisles. And whilst I'm at it, The Hippopotamus by Stephen Fry. Wrong on so many levels, but I just help myself.

5. One book that made you cry.
Les Miserables - gets me every time.

6. One book that you wish you had written.
Harry Potter. I'd be rolling in millions, bathing in asses milk and would be hand fed grapes by Johnny Depp.

7. One book you wish had never been written.
King Lear - yes... I know it's a play but oh my God! It gave me so much pain for my A-Level English. Pain that lingers on today. And just for good measure, every single Mills and Boon publication. Anything that gives desperate women false hope of a sickly sweet love with hero men and magic bras that make their boobs look 20 years younger should be consigned to the emergency toilet roll pile.

8. One book that you are reading at the moment.
Am finding it hard to settle down with a good book at the moment, so am dipping at the moment... James Martins Deserts is one. Well... it's a book of types filled with yummy treacle tart. Which lead to the other book I'm dippping into at the moment - The Darwin Awards 3. Oh how I laugh and wince.

9. One book that you've been meaning to read.
The De Vinci Code - I know it's supposed to be a good book, however am totally put off by the hype.

10. Five others that you’d like to do this.
I'm not even sure if I have five - Andy Ramblings tagged merely for the fact as he smirked on Zoe's website that he had got away with it. Mind, I don't think he pops in here, so will also tag Ella even, though I have the feeling that all of her answers may be Bob the Builder, so her mummy may have to choose for her. Am sure that Milady would have some good ones as well, but she was sulking she hadn't been asked and am not sure if she's popped by. Yaxlich is also dubbed, whereas Pat has opted out, so I'll have to tag Banana and Chai.

And as hairy toes are an advantage, Girlpants suggested that I audition, but given the state of his own, he can't talk. He'll probably head up this weekend to see if he can get a place as a 5ft 10 tiny person, whilst egging me on at 5ft 4 to try for Gandalf.

Am buying Veet tomorrow.

We had two very pissed off pussies in the house today. They were been locked in, confined to the main part of the house meaning that there was only one place they can hide for when I brought in the kitty carriers as Girlpants was in work.

Today was jab day. The annual day of falling flat on my face in the midst of flailling arms and claws trying to catch the furballs and stuff them in a box each. Whilst Rhubarb may be fine, Custard will not go down without a fight. Whereas Rhubarb will follow the smell of food, Custard is smarter as she likes to pounce, so basically I had to out think the feline equivalents to Homer Simpson and his daughter Lisa.

Whilst all I could hear in the background were the random hisses, the occassional spit and with one mind on the violence that would in no doubt ensue, I wandered the house wearing oven mitts, thick jumper and eye protection. How could anyone resist me?

Some days (okay, the last couple of months) my diary is so barren that the bats fly out of it and I just wish for something to look forward to. So when incoming email from an old uni friend who announced that he was to be wed within 2 months came in Saturday night, I was dancing. 2 hours later, I got a phone call from MIL who reminded me that Girlpants' brother was to be wed in Aiya Napa in less than 5 weeks, just after I sent sent a "yay, I'm going" mail back to aforementioned old uni friend. Close together, but we reasoned it wasn't a toughie. Then the next morning, I got confirmation that I had a temp job. Starting in two weeks. Finishing December 22nd. But five monutes after jumping around for this one line of working hope that had been thrown my way, I realised...

Bollocks!

One marriage is in Cyrpus - Aiya Napa of all places so Girlpants will be clubbing it in his del monte hat. The second wedding is in Yankee Doodle land - so for both, I'll need at least 5 days off for each, but for three months temp work, trying to wrangle two trips off may prove a tad troublesome. Cue emailing the line manager today and getting back the "unpaid leave" line, which I was expecting and fair play. But also the assumption that the weddings were in this country. Bah! 12 emails later and all is not yet sorted.

Add to this, Boris the German is flying over next week (whom I haven't seen for 4 years) and wants to meet up which I don't want to miss for the world. He tried to arrange it months ago, but with no reminder kicking me in the shins, I booked dinner out instead. Double booked double bah! A few days ago, everything was fine and now it appears that as soon as I take an active interest in cleaning house and ironing (something avidly avoided for months) that temp jobs and interviews come in and everything happens at once.

I think for Christmas, I shall ask Santa for a filofax. That way I can at least attempt to keep my dates in order.

I give the bunny 2 days

My course finished in June however the job quest still goes on. I realised this yesterday when I bumped into my old chemistry teacher who mentioned everybody was comng back soon. Has the summer gone that quickly?

This summer has been rain, heat, blistered and filled with rejections for me. Maybe not such a great summer but as Great AUnt Mabel always used to say, it builds character. It could be worse - I could be suffering like Yaxlich walking into a room that retches of vegetable soup whilst waiting my turn. Devil soup - I don't know how the dear boy deals with it all.

What is it about potential employers where they can't be arsed to even write a receipt of your application or send you a quick email informing you of your abject failure to impress them? I've sent enough applications to cut down a virtual forest, but I never receive any contact except for the read receipt that I asked for when they opened up my email box of delights. Even the job search engines are dire - there is nothing for a technician's position down here in the sticks unless you're a car technician or into nails of the painting kind. But you keep yourself busy, but then there's only so many threads to hoover in the carpets. Talkative Sis told me the other day that I was being fussy in my job search - and maybe I am. So I took myself in the psychology department last week, pimping my psyche for paid testing. Ten minutes later and it was the easiest £3 I ever earned!

Meanwhile, the applications still go and and I'm constantly waiting for a reply - any reply. Whether it's piss off, come on over or you've failed again. A little communication would bring a little bit of joy. And whilst last night, I suddenly realised how quickly time has gone without any joy, I suddenly felt very depressed. So Girlpants tried to cheer me up by offering to buy me a pet bunny. I just hope that it's of the fluffy kind.

Dear Sim

We must apologise but we totally and royally stuffed up your grades and undermarked your papers for this qualification. We realise that you are a very intelligent and witty person and that it was only for our own good that you slapped us on the arse until we came to our senses. We're sorry for any inconvienience that this may have cause your

1. quest for a job
2. university placement
3. morale

(please delete as applicable)

How could we ever make it up for you? We will beat ourselves something silly as atonement, with a big dirty stick. Will in no doubt hear from you soon...

Toodle Pip!

The Examiners

             The little nephew lay there, sleeping on the sofa. There was something different. Something I couldn't figure out.             Then Talkative Sis picked him up and it all became apparent. His pants were a bright, brilliant, sky blue. He had moved on. He had finally grown out of the white bulky nappies that he usually wears.

She had put him in a pair of girlpants.

Now, neither I nor Girlpants have ever thought of his good self as being a fashion savant - he never buys clothes without my being prescent and would have put himself up for that yankee doodle restyle show had he not seen the sad excuse known as the British version. He almost got nominated for the show a few times before we had even met, to which he still holds head in shame.

But now, he's slowly being weened from the dress sense he had before, this man of mine. He's still holding onto his 15year old workers boots for dear life, but most of the plaid shirts, work shirts over ten years old and some of his "happy jumpers" that would have only done justice on Mister Edmounds in 1976 have now gone to the car boot sale in the sky, no doubt destined for some satirical student nights out.

However, some of the girlpants remain, despite my best attempts. And now the second generation is being reared wearing the same. A fashion faux pas in the making. So writing this in hindsight, it was a type of poetic justice as little nephew gave a yawn and snuggled into Talkative Sis.

And them promptly peed his Girlpants.

Custard Cat came in tonight. Miaowing. Asking for attention. Wanting love and attention.

Personally, I thought she had been bullied. Again. The new cats that have moved into the area, with their gangster attitudes and big guns. They all wear the same colour collar, and are all the same breed. And they only attack in their gangs.

Maybe I'm undermining Custards position. I've recently walked around with one of those 2.5 litre pump water pistols that can shot over 50ft. Just to back her up if I see her in trouble. Sad really, but my cat used to be one of the top cat. She's a top mouse catcher - she's even taken on a rat. She used to have fun with the others, puncing around and playing. There were no fights. No black eyes. No claws left behind.

But that changed. Custard has lost her confidence and we've even caught her looking at a bullying hotline ad. She used to got out all of the time - out of the two of them, she would be the one to take the car keys. But of late, she only leaves the house by night. It's safer. Except today. I could tell there was something different in her. Her attitude, the way she held herself - this was the old Custard.

She was back!

She jabbed, lunged and weaved her way around the square. She fought back. To the point we thought she was wounded. She came back, wanting company and loving, calling for attention. We fought she wanted food. Or even praise for making her mark on what was once hers. We were proud of our kitty and told her so. But then it all got to much for her, and she was promptly ill in front of us.

With a half dead wasp in the midst.

It's a tough cat world in our square now - but I think our kitty has just made her mark.

After a restless nights sleep, thanks to heat, chills and a Custard cat briging in a live mouse at 5am (thank you kitty), I dragged myself out of my duvet induced coma at 7:55 to get myself ready for a 10:30am interview.

I was ready. Over the weekend, I had dragged Girlpants around the Debenhams sales to find clothes that would fit my now ample arse. After fainting several times after a) measuring the chest and b) trying on various styles and sizes of couture, I strolled away merrily whilst he had staggered under the weight of my bargains. The sister had also double checked the outfits deemed appropriate, including shoes. How could I go wrong?

Dollied up to the nines, and apparently looking like Supernanny (after saying which, I could hear was a quick back peddle - "not as large Sim...please don't slap me"), I put on ridiculous sexy shoes that I knew were going to tear my feet to shreds and off I peddled. Arriving 15 minutes early, I waited. And waited. Twenty minutes past the scheduled appointment. Tick tock tick. Eventually, by 11, I ushered into a small room that used to be one of the nun's old cells and faced the inquisition.

Things were going swimmingly. They asked, I answered. It all seemed to be going so well. Small team - only three with the extra person. Training. Even some hint of promotion, but only if the older woman interviewing me died as I could see her nails digging into the table as she claimed dominion of the department. Amazingly enough, through it all, my lippy stayed off as the light streamed directly into my eyes and the nails digged deeper and deeper into the mdf. Then they dropped it. The clanger. Salary.

Usually, salary isn't a sticker for me. Trust me - I've worked for some shirty companies with some really low pay, but for the high specification of this job with analytical skills in addition to a scientific background, and the salary, after tax, national insurance and minus the percentage for the benefit scheme, actually worked out less than the minimum wage. Did I say less? I meant pitiful in comparison to the minimum wage.

Considering this and the fact that I've just dragged my sorry arse through college, it's no wonder that masses of British choose benefits as opposed to work. Faced with this shocker, I kept my good spirits and smile, meanwhile quickly calculating what I would be left with after Labour stripped me of my pay. Whilst doing so, they faced me with the final question.

Interviewer - Where do you see yourself in five years time?

Sim - As a size twelve.

Do you think I got it?

At three o'clock in the morning, with no air-con....

Sim - Whats the matter!? You keep tossing and turning.

Girlpants - It's too hot - I can't sleep.

Sim - (Grrr!) If I fan you for a little while, do you think it will help?

Girlpants - The fan? Maybe not, but the breeze from your bingo wings will.

Last night, Girlpants and I were redeemed of sproglet watching due to molar maneuvers. As they came out before we left, we decided to see either the Man of Steel or M. Depp at his best, making the most of Orange Wednesdays before they become extinct.

Lately, there have been reports that British movies and cinema attendance has risen, and with it, profits. Bravo for British cinema - a return to the golden era of Ealing Studios. But given the prices we had to dish out yesterday, the rise in British attendance is surprising, as Girlpants turned blue when paying for tickets. And then looked up at the price board and declined muchies and chocolate.

Let's see - even with my slowly expiring student card (£4.80) and one adult (£6.45) and the £1 booking fee, that's already £12.25 for tickets alone. Plus popcorn (£4.50 medium bucket) and two medium drinks (2 x £2.45) and the night out costs £21.65. Whilst we're in the sticks, even I feel for Londoners at £12.50 for an adult and £9.50 for students, totalling £23.00 without the munchies!

Given the prices demanded from their captive audiences, I did feel that the elderly lady et al bringing a pizzabox into the theatre and then arguing for 15 minutes over her right to eat had a point, however, she also blatently took the piss and held us up. Lucky for me (and Girlpants belly), I had my ever present bottle of water and box of tic-tacs at the ready. Only two calories and 20p a box, bloody bargain!

Can of worms open at the ready - this one of moi-self and Dr Clarke was found on Girlpants INC 2006 website

Oh dear.

After a few hours on a train that seamlessly left exactly on time... again! and Girlpants and I are back in the dwelling we call home. No fish died in our absence, the plants are still green and the cats are not longer speaking to us.

Maybe it was due to the heat, the burrs in their tails or the mere fact we didn't sit them down and explain that mummy and daddy were pissing off on holiday and no, the fur-balls had to stay home as if they came in the case, there would be no room for cheap booze. But right now, the ungrateful little buggers are on the stairs, backs to us with the occasional glare behind them in either an attempt to burn out our retinas or to check if the fresh food is out yet. Personally, I think the cats have it easy. They eat, sleep and are out all hours, without us nagging them about it or bringing up the fact that both were pregnant before they were one year old. Once a year, they're rammed into their own individual cat boxes to have their temperatures checked, a couple of vaccinations between the ears and bionic chips checked. To make up for such indignities, approximately twice a week, I scoop them up give them the love and attention which I know they really want.

Maybe that last one isn't such a good example, but the fact remains that these cats are loved. There I was, sweating in Belgium, being force fed wine by Girlpants and traipsing around the cities, earning blisters on the soles of my feet in the process, and meanwhile, they were bitching to the neighbours, begging at their doors as if we had left them with nothing. As if we had left them with no tuna, no babysitters, no meat, no Britta filtered water nor the run of the house - naddah!

We're on the losing end here methinks, as I think these two will do anything to scrounge for food or attention.

Little tarts!

They'll forgive us in a day or so.

So that was Brussels - it was hot, sticky and there was a decided lack of wireless internet that Girlpants could pirate from the room. It's taken a couple of hours to recover from the shakes, but now I am behind ye olde laptop, life is complete.

By heck - I think I may be an addict!

Brussels was beautiful  but quick - we only had a bit and a day there. The (last) day, we were stuck in a park, cordoned off by the military for a parade celebrating the inauguration of Leopold I in 1831, whilst in the heat, Girlpants & I were desperately trying to begin our daily quoffing of cold liquid nectar. The first bit has us meeting up with Q and that woman wot got me (ahem! okay - I got us...) drunk that time on Dartmoor for some vino and local cruisine. The poor thing had been pining for Branstons and a solitary piece of chedder, and so in a mad flurry before we made it to Waterloo, I popped into the local shop at Paddington and bought a little bit of home to take to Zed.

I say a little bit - those local Sainsburys aren't as cracked up as their bigger rellies. After five minutes of seraching, I had managed to find the two biggest pieces of cheese out of the sorry excuses they had. All of 0.253kgs each. Whilst I was not amused in a Queenie kinda way, I was less more so when Girlpants leaned over and placed one back.

Girlpants - You don't know if it will travel for five days in trés chaud Belgium.

Famous last words. Poor Zed - her wails of anguish could be heard from Gent to Leige as we tried to break the news that the chedder had melted, whilst we and Q tried to help her anguish with by ordering her a very cold beer, and then supping & sipping wine until late evening. Despite our little cool bag, the heat which had helped me slowly sweat the weight off had also done severe damage to the westcountry mature that had travelled so far.

The pickle survived.

It's not all that usual to visit foriegn lands without using a plane from our little isle, but due to time constraints and costs, thats exactly what Girlpants and I decided to do this time. Early this morning, we packed our bags, had a good breakfast, even prepared a cold lunch with obligatory bottle of chilled wine for our travels, then made our way to the train station where we bought 2 return tickets to Waterloo, and waited in good time for our train.

Where we were greeted by a packed train. Too many people in too little space as once again, the authorities that be had sold too many tickets for what was clearly a much demanded service. Despite people standing, there were also some tickets on empty booked places (the British never being ones to get in others seats) which made me feel that either they had missed their train or had taken one look and refused to have got on, which I silently thanked them for being bad time keepers as Girlpants and I lent back into their allocated seats. In the midst of the carnage, where holiday makers and backpackers jostled for luggage space around the swarth of surfboards that stuck out of the luggage racks, the train conductor made an announcement, apologising for the service, the global warming within the carriages and the complete lack of staff on the train due a colleagues marriage with free bar the day before, resulting in staff either not turning up at all, or turning up and clearly being unable to drive a train.

This also meant a complete lack of buffet being served to the masses as the chef was helping the conductor check tickets. No sandwiches, snacks or food avaiable on a train that was advertised as family friendly. To compensate, GWR put crates of soft drinks and water out for the thirty masses, which was quickly consumed by chavs and student parties, who stuffed as much free drink into their bags within a ten minute timescale. Over the years, we've made it a rule never to take buffet cars for granted, so Girlpants and I watched this, from the sanctity of anothers seat, quietly drinking our vino and then tucking into our H-D club sandwich.

The price of our smugness was the confiscation of our tickets when we arrived at Paddington, being then told to buy more for our onward journey, followed by the predicable outrage. I sat back in the shade whilst Girlpants went purple and argued his cause, discovering that the happy chef who jovially checked the ticket stubs also forgot to tell us to change at Reading for our onward journey. Fast forward Girlpants grump, a mad rush, then the Bakerloo line, and we finally made it to le Eurostar and aircon. What a change - there was less than a five minute wait to check in and have the bags checked, whilst once again, ye olde underwear set alarm bells and some poor youngster had to check my sweaty armpits for nail files and guns thanks to my underwire bra. A short queue later, and Girlpants was horrifed to find French authorities giving our passports a cusory check before waving us on (Girlpants - "What!? Not even scanned??"). Whilst I saw the irony in the French nation having a foothold in Waterloo, I didn't care because it was efficient. The ticket system was throughly updated so the operators knew exactly how many were on the train, tickets were checked before we even set foot on the escalators which took us directly up to the train platform and carriages and then, the train smoothly left. On the dot. To the second. On time.

When did the British rail system go so wrong? Was is because we were sold out by the man with a handbag? Or do we only think back to the reliable days of Miss Marple and the Railway Children? There's no doubt that in comparison with the Eurostar, the British train loses out. Even the British trainspotters are a dying breed, rarely seen at the end of platforms, as they've given up the ghost. Whilst les toilettes had no toilet paper (thank God for handy tissues), the seats were uncomfortable and there wasn't much space to strech in, compared to the GWR journey, our questions were answered, we knew our connections and we were in Brussels in less than 2.5 hours. Add in plus 40 minutes, we were settling into our Leuven hotel as even the local train left on the dot.

Just give us 20 minutes, we'll be having our first beer. Viva le Eurostar!

So the conference is over. I only managed to get drunk about three times, humiliated myself once and even attended one of the talks. And in the midst of this, I kept my poise and strutted around in heels and a skirt, feeling safe in the notion that I was surrounded by delegates and should I fall, then I would ahve landed softly on one of them.

So we're off to the land of Stella tomorrow - seven days away. Eurostar here we come! Apparently it's hotter there than here, although I won't belive that until I crack an egg on the pavement. At least if it is sauna like conditions, then a little more weight can be sweated off as I lumber in the heat. Usually when you go away, lugging around the bags is good enough for that, however, in the midst of clearing the conference hall and pushing PC's. monitors and paperwork around campus, Numbnut here has managed to pull her right shoulder out. I currently smell like le rosbif, marinated in a deep heat gravy. Pickled in lager.

Professor Lovely was talking about babies yesterday, and looked in my general direction. Even offered a well thumbed ladybird book to help, which after closer examination, was declined, despite his assertions that it helped him on many an occassion.

I put the baby questions down to the fact that we've been married for two years bar one month and now the course is over, the questions are starting. I suppose that I have been looking around at the sproglets around me. What's that tick tock in the background? Could it be the consequential demise of potential babies? The pinging of the fallopian tubes as they lose their elasticity to age? A good friend once referred to pregnancy as a parasite feeding off your body for nine months - and technically she's right. But then I think that I might prefer pregnancy to other options.

Admittedly, I was feeling very clucky a couple of weeks ago, however soon after these thoughts come into my head, I saw a small toddler have a tantrum on Nikki scales, who then turned from red to blue, and when she reached purple, promptly threw up down her mothers top. That kinda thing makes parenthood look appealling.

Am I desperate to have a child? To be honest, I've been told so many different opinions, heard so much medical advice and listened to so many stories both good and horror, that it's getting to the point where I'm not really bothered and in point of fact, I don't really care - if something happens, then I'll go for it. If not, then I'll either do a Jolie or ram a fertility drug in my right buttock and hope for triplets!

And no matter what Girlpants says, the names Fanny, Gertrude and Belzebub will not be in the running!

So Girlpants has been busy -

there is now an all spanking new "about me" page, which apparently is a must for good manners in blogging circles. It's not too informative but I figured that peeps would prefer an insight as opposed to a bedside story that would knock them out for several hours. If you need to sleep more, try a hot toddie.

He's also reinstated the photos - yup. That's me. The big heifer in the bridal gown, with Girlpants next to me with a haircut that costs over six squid for once. Which means he looks his age and not a paperboy - I hate those days when he goes to the butchers and comes back pre-pubescent.

Also, some of the archives had been out back online from when we switched templates and moved to DasBlog. Please excuse the titles as they scream at you. If I'm still jobless by the end of the month, I shall trawl through them and repair.

Meanwhile, I've had three rejections and two non-answers (as in not even acknowledging). If this carries on, I'll have to consider other options... Selling body parts, becoming part of the typing pool or even hiring myself as a forensic criminal extraordinaire - I've heard there's a huge demand for that in the market.

Because they are humans too. Go on. Find a random hoodie type peep on the street and give them a good old squeeze. It's not that they're hiding their face in a sweat ridden hooded top for any no good reason in this weather. They're just mis-understood.

And then after you've enfolded them for England, be indulgent about the black eye and 25 stiches you have gained as your reward for understanding embrace.

Too shagged tired to blog - so I'll leave you with conundrums that were whirling around my dreams last night:

• Do fish get thirsty?
• Why is monosyllabic so long?
• Has anybody actually killed two birds with one stone?
• Who gets the reward money if the criminal turns himself in?
• If quizzes are quizzical, what are tests?

Just saw Markos for the first time. He was so excited to see me, that he weed and pooed himself.

That cats love playing. It's their favourite thing to do bar eating and sleeping. They have a habit of jumping through the cat flap and racing around the house and pawing at the back patio door to be let in. And then the cycle starts again. They love having their bellies rubbed and jumping in the bed at 6 in the morning, wet, soggy and covered in twigs and seeds. And they love hunting.

Rhubarb the fat hunts stale moudly bread. She's very brave. And feathers. Never forget the feathers as she tries to claim that she grabbed them off the back of a passing eagle. She'll strop if you don't praise her. In complete opposite, Custard, the dirty stop out, hunts things. Dead mice, live mice - she even brought in a dead Robin which made me cry and shat on Christmas. Last night, it was a live mouse. A stupidly fat large mouse.

Because she caught him three times.

Three times she came in and three times we ran around the living room - Girlpants to catch and wifey with the dettol. I held the cats back by cunningly locking the cat flap and Girlpants released the rodent and we refused to let the animals out for a while. Fast forward ten minutes later, and once again, Custard comes triumphantly in. With mouse and tell tale marks of capture on it's tail. Only this time, it's under the sofa. Joy! We go through the capture, hold back and detol experience, then settle on the sofa again, as it is late. Fast forward another ten minutes later, and it all starts again. With the same mouse! This time, Girlpants trudged to the back of the square to the fields as I disinfected for England so the cats wouldn't find it. Shattered, we both went to bed.

Whilst Rhubarb stayed in the dry, watching us all and laughing.

England are out, the car flags are at half mast, the carnage of Izzy's 5th birthday is over and I am on my third rocket lolly...

Yum yum yum!

It's currently 27.7°C in the H-D household today. The cats are being dirty stop outs and I am on my third, thats right people! third job application of the day! Get me! Well - it's either that or rehoovering the floors. Again.

Girlpants has a conference next week and after that, he's taking me on holiday. To Belgium. Admittedly, when he said he would take me away as a reward for working so hard on my course, I kinda had this

in mind.

Ho hum! Needless to say, Girlpants is on a jolly and I am accompanying. I am looking forward to it though! Eurostar over, then firstly to Leuvan, where no doubt we will stagger around our tour of the local brewery, then onto Antwerp and the final destination of Brussels, where we will be staying in a beautiful art deco hotel.

Belguim chocolates - cannae wait!

Mister Girlpants is tired. As tired as a hard working man can be. Not only has the academic year just finished with all the meetings, training and exam boards, but there's a conference in less than a weeks time and a whole load of programming to do for outside projects.... We were working on a friends kiddy flat pack furniture which meant that the bottle of white and strawberries I had planned were left in the fridge as we were both too tired to do anything but sleep - not even make a cup of tea! Then this morning, he refused to leave the bed until midday today. Sleepy boy = grumpy Girlpants.

Especially in this heat!

So when he saw the news tonight, he turned to me and said lovingly...

"Ere! Maid! 'dere be no flags on cars in Plymouth tonight..."

Droll Devonshire boy.

Not even funny!

Girlpants - If she was plastic, she could be a doll...

(Trashlyne moved to next door in the BB House, and needless to say, she was estatic!)

Today, little Issy is five!

(As if butter wouldn't melt!)

おたんじょうびおめでとうございます

Happy Birthday Isabel!

As in all good traits, both Girlpants and I have been trying to corrupt this little girlie - mummy's having a rabbit (Girlpants), mummy's roots are showing (Girlpants) and everytime you don't cover your mouth when you cough, a bunny rabbit dies (me)...

I know - we're bad!

But my corruption is subtle... Issy now knows that there is Father Christmas, Easter Bunny and Birthday Badger, and all three talk to each other to compare good and bad lists. I also introduced her to the theme of (BOTH of!!!) her parties...

That's right - Hello Kitty. She now wants a Hello Kitty handbag, lunchbox, a Hello Kitty swimming costume, Hello Kitty rug... The list goes on. However I think it's quite sweet - expensive but sweet. Ijust hope that next year, she doesn't want this, this...

or this...

Sim - Tim Henman's out

Girlpants - Yay! About time...Now what about England??

Staying on a theme....

Girlpants - Are you bored yet with no college work to do?? I can't wait to see you climb the walls!

Isn't love grand? And doesn't the man know that theres always mindless daytime television to help while away the hours, inbetween cleaning house, organising parties and applying for numerous numerous jobs. And never forget that I'm still on tenderhooks to see if I can get on ye olde course via begging emails, so am constantly checking outlook for any replies.

I am enjoying this respite from study and work, but I do see Girlpants point. Very soon, in the not so distant future, I will start biting my nails down to the cusp and tearing my hair out from the roots, so fingers crossed on the job front. Forget a horse - I offer one of my homebaked cheese cakes for a lab job!

In the meanwhile, I could always join a gym...

Or have lunch. Because I must be lightheaded to have typed that line! Please excuse me whilst I go out for some chicken

:o)

Either the college work is catching up on me, or the bed covers have an infection that has spread to me because this morning, I couldn't move. The limbs just weren't working... Whenever I tried to move, the pillows drew me back in and the duvet...well, the duvet just whip snapped me around the ankle and dragged me back to it's confines...

Life without college work or employment is hard...

Oh God! I need to find a job!

Girlpants - It must be sunny - you're shaving your legs! Just don't forget the toes. You're looking like a hobbit at the moment.

Humph!

So where have I been for the last three months..???

Well, college got a bit much - to the point that we felt we had to complain about one of the lecturers who had split his assignments from 3 to 32 to make our lives easier. The work got intense, arguments brewed and deadlines grew shorter and in a nutshell, something had to give.

So I did.

Does this mean that I'm not fantastic at multitasking and therefore a failure as a woman? Maybe not, despite the evidence of the ironing pile growing at an alarming rate upstairs and the hairball that Rhubarb choked up last month is probably still tumbleweeding around the area. Despite this, I still managed to keep Girlpants fed, the animals are healthy and the house was and still is clean. And more importantly,

ALL THE ASSIGNMENTS ARE NOW IN!!

Maybe like The Coat-Hanger Jawster, I am just a woman...a weak and feeble woman who can only juggle so many balls in the air. Or maybe I can multi-task only there is a limit to the number of jobs I can do. Admittedly, my keep fit regime has gone to the dogs, the car needs a wash and I haven't been to the hairdressers in an age. But my nails look good and I lost half a stone. Probably because I was too busy juggling to eat.

That was officially, two years out of my life.

Finished. Naddah. Last assignment in and marked - and by golly, it was a good one! I can do science me, and my party trick is my profiling abilities. He came from a broken home don't you know, milord. Blames others for the size of his manhood and projects it onto other men who he feels stuff sports socks down their trousers, to both make him feel inadequate and bringing a totally new outlook on the phrase "trouser snake". Not his fault at all milord - he had had a psychotic break after being forced to watch big brother 7 til the wee hours of the morn, so you couldn't possibly blame him for snapping in anger and accidently stabbing his wife seventeen times and then, in a daze that legally he can never recall, he buried her in the garden under the patio, next to the dahilas...

I know my original degree in bullshit would come in handy!

So within a month, I will be a fully qualified vocational forensic scientist. Get me. I could either be a rather good SOCO or an extremely successful criminal. 

And the boot of my car is big enough for a body.

Am back...

Just popping the sore red nose in, reading Girlpants entry from when 'im that lives indoors was jollying in Sweden, whilst I sit here on the sofa feeling morose and very very very sorry for myself, with the only backgroun music being Girlpants hoovering upstairs.

You see, I've taken the day off from assignments - I say take, but the reality is that Girlpants ordered me to. The course has been a bit of a bitch and at times, I've just wanted to pack it all in and hide in a corner. However it's come to the end of a two year course, and now I have three, Yes! only three!!! assignments left to complete.

And so needless to say, with light at the end of the tunnel, the start of the summer and in the midst of this glorious glorious sunshine, I get the flu.

Bloody smeg.

It's stupid. Flu. In June. When it's 27.6^oC degrees indoors - that's like 75^oF, which is a small miracle in this country (and if that's the temperature for inside as given by Girlpants technological clock which can do most things but make a decent cuppa, then God knows what it is outside...) And in this heat, there's eikle me with a fever higher than my granny's knocker line which made me pass out, knocking ye olde walnut out cold on the sink and landing moi, stone cold in a totally undignified manner. Which means I couldn't possibly do any work on assingments as they wouldn't make any sense and I'd only have to do them again. Which means Girlpants is totally looking after me - he even brought me flowers, cooked dinner and tucked me in. Which makes me all soppy, appreciative and feel pampered whilst feeling terribly terribly sorry for myself. Which makes me wonder three things...

1. How long am I going to feel this rotten?
2. Will my nose ever recover?
3. How long can I milk this??

Whilst waiting during the blog interval

here's some Girlpants eyecandy...

Thats Missy Ruthie Henshall to you!

Girlpants - Do you like chocolate starfish?

Sim - You what?

Girlpants - Do you like chocolate starfish??

Sim - That sound's rude

Girlpants - But I want one...

Funny boy..

So after having el parentos over for dinner last night, I finally switched on old reliable and found an old friend on line...

C!

Now Mister C is an old friend of mine from the ill gotten uni days in London. I hear from him occasionally as he's been studying and has his own life to be getting on with. However, he was back on-line last night with a vengeance, a new job and another woman in a msg window.

Atta boy!

However he did ask something that others have been asking me for some time, however in a most eloquent fashion...

Callum says:

How's you & Girlpants?

Sim Haskell-Dowland says:

He’s fine - still trying to get him into man knickers

Callum says:

I never did (dare to) ask why you call him Girlpants!

Sim Haskell-Dowland says:

He always used to wear mens briefs which looked more like my knickers than a blokes. He's now in boxers!

Callum says:

boxers/trunks are the way forward, y-fronts are just conceptually-crusty, no guys wear briefs!

Callum says:

So long as he's not wearing thongs...

Callum says:

Or yours...

Sim Haskell-Dowland says:

Erm...No to that last one. And I’ve been telling him for years!

Callum says:

Maybe he's gay, and just married you as cover!

Far be it for me to debate my husbands sexuality on a blog.... But no C, there's no chance of that last one being even a smidgen true. However I did have to try and explain to mother in law and Girlpants as to why I was folded over in laughter for half an hour!

So why is he called Girlpants. Well, it stems back to his dress sense when we were first going out. This included yeti jackets, jeans that stopped at his knees, jumpers that left fashion in the 1970's and knickers.

But it didn't just stop there...

I know girls - who could resist such a man...?

But it wasn't until, after much nagging and changing of the underwear, that the nickname prevailed. Sitting in bed, drinking tea on a Saturday morning, a cartoon came on the box.

Wayne and Lucien. Where the two played and bickered. Wayne being naughty and adventurous - Lucien wanting to sniff flowers and doing other girlie things. And therefore being labelled Girlpants.

It just seemed apt to me.

Now those days of briefs have gone with their 1970's paisley patterns. And now, we have Calvin's in their place.

But if he thinks that the nickname will disappear in the wilderness of time, then he's sadly mistaken...

So Girlpants mum & I have been looking at winter walking jackets for the last week as she's from up north and I just know that Girlpants is going to insist on dragging me out to the moors some more. We've been shopping around - spotted some fine jackets in TKMaxx the other week, Trago the next and even tried some of the more rather expensive outdoor shops where you just know that you're going to pay that extra pretty penny.

Eventually though, we decided the the TKMaxx option with the removable fleece inside of the jacket was the best option at the princely sum of £21.99. So off we trundled once more, only to find that in the time honoured tradition of trying to get the consumer to buy more tatt, they had moved things around. Eventually, we once again found the jackets. But all was not as it was before.

They had removed the fleeces. And were selling them separately.

And the jackets were now £80!

Business sense? Yes

Ethics? No

Flabbergasted? Yes

I guess that I'll just remain cold...

When I was a child, the Catholic schools that I went to made me do a number of things that Blair probably wouldn't let them do today. The first (and worst) was the abduction of children to sing at the funerals of elderly people within the parish. This was either to make up the numbers of mourners or that the person who had died had made the request to be sung to by angels as they were interred. They couldn't find angels so went for the next best thing - 7 year olds!

It was pretty scary seeing these coffins at such a young age, especially as they were very old people that we didn't really knew. But singing was required and singing we performed. At the worst we got nightmares, at best, we got an entire morning off from classes!

Which leads to the next thing - singing. I wouldn't say that I had a fantastic voice, but trying to make me as a child sing Ave Maria to the rafters did nothing for my confidence. It wasn't because I was singled out as a fantastic and exceptional singer at that age. It was the fact that it was the annual Catholic singing competition at Buckfast Abbey. The restored church would be peaceful and silent until the hordes of unwilling participants swarmed over the abbey to take their places in the pew and sing to their teachers urgings. Such delectable sounds were only broken by the sound of a tape recorder that my mother had sneaked into the church, taping the sound of her children to send to their grandmother back home.

I blame my childhood for my bad knees. It's all the kneeling and genuflecting you had to do as part of the mass service. Nothing to do with the fact that I've shot my knee joints to hell. So I was quite surprised to be look forward to going back to the abbey for a visit in the depressing and cold rain.

It's changed from my childhood. I always thought that it was bigger, but maybe it's grown less as I've grown taller. The abbey church was filled with noise as they were renovating the west wing elevation for safety, and whilst little elderly people started flashing their cameras around, the chapel was encased in double glazing and the monks allowed themselves back into the enclave using their swipe cards, Girlpants couldn't help but note that my religion had gone commercial.

Which is probably why we bought so much at the gift shop.

This is my own fault.

I got Girlpants to take the week off work, mainly because his mum was coming down. But now they are all settled in the house, I'm left with a dilemma.

What do we do for the rest of the week??

The five day forecast says that the weather is going to be dire, the National Trust is basically closed, and after waiting an hour to have a go a tobogganing to avoid the mad children, we need to be careful to avoid half term activity traps.

So I sit here. Thinking. And thinking.

Yesterday we went tobogganing and then trekked on the moor. I finally managed to fly and kite and even got it to dive bomb Girlpants - but after several failed attempts to get the kite off and it spectacularly crashing to it's end, the stunt kite is looking slightly worse for wear. Especially when the wind took it so high that the string broke and muggins here had to chase it. Into a pit of horse dung.

So today was gentile. Today we went to St Mellions for wine tasting. And Girlpants had fun. The thing is, usually he tells me that he'll drive so our resident alcoholic (moi) can partake in a quibble of beer. But I wanted him to try the wines today to see which one he liked - so he had his little testing book, ranking system and glass and he dashed between the tables trying at first the ones he liked, and then after eating a cornish ostrich pasty, the most expensive.

The man is no fool

How to dig your own grave baby...

Girlpants - Are you sure that I didn't come here with you?

Sim - Positive. First time I met you it was all you could do to stop talking about your car

Girlpants - Maybe it wasn't you.

Sim - You think?

Girlpants - Maybe it was Alistair.

Girlpants - You know how to toboggan, don't you love?

Sim - What gave you that idea?

Girlpants - We've been here before. We came with Stu & Jayne remember?

Sim - No. That must have been you with your other girlfriend...

Now let's see... There was birthday cake

Tiramasu

Strawberries

Bread & butter pudding

Chocolates

And then he rested for seconds...

After a large night at Tanners and the big night of Delia's fish pie and wine, we got up bright and early, ate breakfast

then switched on the box.

And watched

and watched.

It was all we could to to get up and switch the kettle on.

And brush the hair and wash.

And then drive to le Chateau Billinghurst to wat and play triv.

It's a hard life, this half term melarkey...

So talkative sister was in Sainsburys yesterday morning, wheeling her trolley about half an aisle behind dad. Who went shopping in his favourite hat.

So needless to say talkative sister was shocked when the woman in front of her turned to her friend and said nastily...

FNW - I see the neighbourhoods gone downhill - they've let the cowboys out.

Now Lyds was not impressed. But I was with her, when within a second of hearing that, she stated in a rather loud voice...

Lyds - At least my cowboy wearing hat father's arse is five times smaller that yours you cow.

Atta girl. Soon we'll have you breathing fire...

Earlier this week, husband of talkative sister got the news that one of his former employees passed away at the age of 31. This was unexpected news which hit the boys pretty hard, especially given the guys age. So to show their respect, Alan was nominated to represent the company at the funeral.

Dressed in sombre attire, he drove down to the crematorium and politely introduced himself to other mourners in the congregation. And once sat down in the chapel, he sang hymns and celebrated the life on the sadly deceased.

Whose name was Alice.

It was at this point that he realised that he was at the wrong funeral. He knew it but couldn't leave. The family didn't know it but were pleased that this well dressed young man was there to say goodbye to their loved one. Made them feel special and safe.

Until he bade them farewell outside of the chapel...then strode straight back into the chapel again when the second entourage approached.

And you thought this could only happen in Six Feet Under.

The morning after...

He was suitably surprised and happy to see his Mammy turn up - which was the secret that I've been hoarding for the last three months. He had a lie in, oodles of cards, cake and even a magic egg, so I do believe that Girlpants had a wonderful birthday. But the piece du resistance was the meal. The best meal any of us have eaten in this city. Even though the staff were friendly, they were also respectful calling Girlpants "sir" at any given opportunity which I couldn't stop chuckling about. Each part of the meal was fantastically presented, complemented by the local wine which was gloriously beautiful with price to match and the crab salad - my God, the crab salad! just melted in the mouth. And now, here we sit on the sofa... All three of us.

Unable to move.

It's Girlpants 31st birthday today.

So why don't you mosey on down to South Park room A329 and buy the man with the crown a drink??

Tell him you have a secret. Let him know that you're holding back a small tiny nugget of truth.

Dangle before him and let aforementioned nugget stew

at gas mark 6.

For three months.

The eve before the most romantic day of the year, and the Journal of Soci-Economics reports on a new research project on marriage, entitled

"Does Marriage make people happy or do happy people get married?"

Apparently at 18months in, both Girlpants and I should now expect our honeymoon to be over. Marriage all goes downhill from here on in. And God help us if we have children in the next two years as apparently that would really pi$$ on our marriage parade as well. We might be able to look forward to a slight happiness revival in years 3 to 5, but other than that, we won't know if we have a successful relationship until our ruby anniversary.

Optimism is a wonderful thing to have large doses of.

Sim - Oooo! Ecilop van parked up!

(pointing to the other side of the road)

Girlpants - Really?

Promptly driving past speed camera

I may mock him, but Girlpants and I are a little bit soppy. Since we were introduced by the power of the Billinghursts, we've spoken and msgd each other every day. From the moment I moved in, bar three occasions, we've never spent a night apart - not even the night before the wedding as Girlpants so quaintly put it:

Girlpants - They've probably guessed that we've shagged already, Missy White Wedding, so what's the point?

Succinct, my man.

The only times when we have been parted have been for courses. Or jollies in his case. Once when I went to Alton Towers the University of Staffordshire on a forensic course, and twice when he's been sent on a jollie to pastures green. Namely Germany and Guernsey.

Now, usually, Girlpants likes me to come with him on these trips. It could be because the places are cold at the times of year when he visits and I keep his feet warm, but we both know that it's mainly because we're soppy and don't really like to be apart.

Especially when he's having all the fun, giving interviews to Radio Guernsey.

Take this morning for instance. I woke up ultra ultra early as I had a 9am lecture and there was no Girlpants to kick me out of bed for a cuppa. And I waited until 8am until I gave him a quick call and a text, but he was tired and had little time, so it was a short sweet conversation.

So I was quite glad when a text arrived at 5pm tonight saying, "in room, call me x x x". Now I'm not saying I programmed the hotels number in speed dial, but within 30 seconds, I had called. We chatted about our respective days - me slogging on the laptop for a assignment tomorrow and giving myself a crick in the neck, and he giving presentations in a happy clappy shave your pits Christian Centre.

These are not important things, but they ritually start and end each of our days. He brushes his teeth and I tell him gossip. I taxi him home from work and he tells me "stuff" about his day as well as any inner office relationship gossip. These are trivial and non-important things that we chat about, but hell, gossip is addictive and by talking about the stuff in our day, we make each other part of our day.

So I wasn't impressed when we were interupted, when the doorbell, newly fixed and now working, rang, and whilst still chatting, I went to answer the door, only to look at a big tall butch guy. He didn't even wait for my greeting - he just dived on in asking:

Double Glazing Guy - Hello madam, do you have a minute?

Sim - Err...

DGG - My names John and I'm <holds up smeered dog eared ID card> from You Don't Need What I'm Selling You Double Glazing Company.

Sim - This isn't important, is it? <starts sarcastically pointing to mobile held to ear>

DGG - I was wondering if you were interested in double glazing?

Sim - No - if you actually look at our home, we've done our own <goes to shut door>

DGG - Really madam? Could you possibly tell me where you got your fixtures from and who fitted them?

Sim - Grrr...

Maybe it's training? Maybe he's thick skinned after countless doors being slammed in his face? Maybe, he was about to get his head snapped off? Maybe I had been pointlessly studying all day and banging my head against a chemical equation wall? Maybe, I had just finished watching an episode of Scrubs before calling Girlpants, and it was there, slam bang in my mind into a mini explosion just waiting to be ranted...

Sim - Listen Shirley. Our windows are new, and no, before you ask, we don't want to buy a door from you to replace our nice thick wooden door because no matter what price you quote, I can guarantee you that we can get it cheaper elsewhere. Now unless you're dying, deaf or blind, you can see I am on my mobile - a long distance don't you know call, because according to the bloody mobile company, Guernsey is foreign despite the +44 dial code and this is costing me a bomb. What's that Shirley? Nothing to say? Didn't want to offer me the Everest lifetime guarentee?? Have you given up pestering me on my doorstep where clearly I didn't invite you and even more so I clearly don't wish to speak to you? If so, thank you. Not interested. Goodbye.

And all I could hear, quietly, on the other end of the line was:

Girlpants - Whose Shirley?

Lately, there's been an advertising campaign telling women to kick their men out of bed. It's known nas the lenor complex - the duvet and sheets smell so good, that you find excuses to get the bed alone. Strange knickers in the glove box, claiming that the postmans at the door or even accidently kicking the door closed when they go out for the milk.

This time, I've won the the war of the duvet. The bed is mine and only the cats with the smelly bums are there to contend. For Girlpants has gone away to places exotic. Another jolly. Only this time, he gets to shiver his skinny arse in Guernsey...

There is a God :o)

An island in the channel. With half a tanker visable offshore. And wind chill. The hotel does sound wonderful, and he gets to teach in the local Christian Centre. He didn't sound impressed but personally, I think it sounds wonderful. I think that he making a big deal of it and his complaining, but it's only because how he's feeling. Despite the meal, university expenses and the big queen size bed, he still misses me.

I may really really miss him.

But I don't miss the cold feet.

And I love the fact I have all of the duvet...

 So this evening I decided to cook a meal for Girlpants. Japanese chicken with peppers, teriyaki salmon, dim sum & Sim special fried rice, number 35.

Only it didn't work out that way.

The chicken itself was tasty as the recipe had been followed through to the letter. The dim sum was a Sainsbury's special and the salmon was steamed to perfection. However, the Sim special rice, number 35 was fubared beyond recognition.

How on earth do you mange to puree rice? I would have never believed it possible, but hey ho - there was a pile of big white chilli mush with prawns and peas. Baby food with big giant taste the difference prawns. Food made with the raw ingredients with my own two incy wincy hands. Big big disaster.

I haven't had a disaster like this since I first tried to fry steak. I say fry. I mean defrost. I say steak. I mean the cheap type of Dale pack steaks that were ready frozen and I had bought in the mistaken belief that I could impress my now ex-wanker bastard boyfriend from hell with a full on steak chips and peas scenario. You see, the problem I have with ready made food is that I can't cook it. Girlpants loves this fact as it means that the roast beef in the house moo's when it comes out of the oven. But it means that any ready made meal that comes out of the kitchen is either smoking, black or if applied, has the ability to kill off any taste buds.

On that night however, I learnt that Dalepack steaks look nothing like the real thing. I learnt that they are shaped in an odd kidney like fashion from regurgitated leftovers from the mince in the aisles. And that they explode into a sodden brown pool when you attempt to defrost them in a microwave. All over the long dress that I stuffed my bumps and bulges into, whilst unwillingly parting with my beloved jeans for the evening. And then came the one sentance that any women would be legally allowed to beat a man into a pulverised mash...

EWBBFH - Never mind luv - I'll send you out for chips.

Deflated? Punched more like. I had taken my measly student allowance and bought what I had believed in my "never really cooked before" life was a fantastic meal. Only to have it explode into shrapnel. All over me. And today, that feeling came back as number 35 slobbered from spoon onto plate.

And yet Girlpants ate every slimy spoonful. Despite his absurd hatred of rice pudding.

Now that's love.

Last night, my mother actually went out into the public domain whilst wearing a leopard skin print top.

If only it looked that good...

NB - Despite what others might think, I am personifying my mother as cuddly, not as a dog!

Either I received my last Christmas card of the year this morning, or my first. I decided that I would plump for the latter, just to take the Christmas card pressure off a good friend whom I've only met once.

Herr Bradburn was at the wedding of two of my close Germanic friends. Unlike our usual repertoire of drunken debauchery and getting naked in a hot tub, this time, all of us ex-Japan gaijin were on our best behaviour. No Kraftwerk karaoke, falling arse over tits or swigging back mizu-wari, which used to be the case in Iwate-Ken - when you're in a country as different to your own, you tend to congrgate in groups that you would have never joined when at home. In Japan, it was anybody who looked remotely western. You used to spend weeks trying to talk broken English to students whilst failing miserably with Japanese. Mainly because they have four (that's right - count it. FOUR!) alphabets that you have to try to remember. I spent a lot of my drinking hours in Japanese bars off the o-dori trying to find gai-jin and eventually bumped into the Germans. Since leaving Japan, we're not in contact as much. The occassional email or card, gossip or phone call. So when we do try and get together, we do. Boris & Erika's wedding was one such occassion. And I was the "only" British bod there. And I had only been learning German for the three months before the wedding.

Ah!

So imagine my glee when I found my own personal gaijin in the form of Ed. Mister Ed had been living in Germnay for some years and was the beau of "el maiden del heilo" who wondered off within the first five seconds of the meal ending. So as good Brits, we propped up bar and drank to our hearts content until the wee hours of the morning. We chatted, ranted, gossiped and matched each other drink for drink to the point that I missed the throwing of the bouquet. Although we only met the once, young master Ed and I have kept in touch - sadly again, this is now sporadic, but to solace himself in my emotional absence, mister Ed took to learning the flute, drinking wine, joining a Irish group, changing job, dating beautiful skinny women and basically getting on with life. Amazingly enough, for only meeting the once, we have kept in touch, laughing / talking about any old crap that would pop into our heads, whilst running up our phone bills into the early hundreds.

So thank you young master Bradburn for the card. Will stalk you later ;o)

GONG XI FA CAI!

It's the year of the dog. Anyone born in this year are found to be hard workers, loyal, honest secret keepers who are also eccentric and terribly terribly stubborn. A happy Chinese new year to all and one. If you're unmarried and related to me, your red envelopes are in the post complete with monopoly money.

Now go forth and dress up your doggies in a dress..

Admittedly, lately I've been in a losey mood. What with the course, the discovery of grey and the head cold which has of late started to spread to the inner marrow of my bones, I've been feeling rougher than a badgers arse.

With the grey to match.

This irritability doesn't happen often. Some men joke that the ladies of their households make their lives "interesting" once a month - a view which I take a dim outlook on. But then I'm lucky in that respect. Girlpants says that I'm special. I don't lick windows but I do let it all build up - the frustration, the angst and the tiredness. They all slowly accumulate until the body weakens and it all takes over, usually once every four months or so. It's at this point that Girlpants has to endure the sharper side of my tongue. He doesn't mind too much as it doesn't last too long - 24 hours later with a hot bath, long sleep and a wee dram of red wine usually helps and then I'm back to my usual cynical, sarcastic never ending babble of self.

He has a method in dealing with my madness. Staying schtum. Naddah. Nowt. Nothing from his lips just in case it gets taken the wrong way. Which inevitably it will. Because he's a man. And it's all his fault. Every hour or so, a cup of tea or a glass of wine might mysteriously appear next to me, whilst in the background I can hear him type furiously on the his laptop, probably complaining on msgr that wifey has gone off on one.

His method of staying schtum took an interesting turn last night. Scene - bed, all tucked up. TV is on and the 100 best videos of all time as presented by Jimmy Carr was on. I was tired but thought that he was interested, so snuggled under the duvet, watching whilst keeping warm. So there we lay, under duvet watching music videos from 99 to 4 when a tiny voice pipes up:

Girlpants - It's two in the morning

Sim - But you're watching this.

Girlpants - But I thought you were watching this...?

Admittedly, yes - we usually talk about everything, but Girlpants hadn't realised that Wicked Wifey had gone and Smiley Sim was almost back. He didn't realise that maybe, just maybe, the schtum defensive doesn't work. Until then.

Sim - You can TALK to me you know!!!

I never said that I was predictable. Or fair.

:o)

*used in the loosest of terms

Jelly & ice-cream, here I come!

Missy Althea Ellen Edwards is all of one year old today. Which is fab as it means that I can get more jelly as I'm taller

Happy Birthday Thea!

No.

Whilst pruning myself in the bathroom mirror as as only a vain cow can, I noticed something. Just one thing. A long hair. A long dark brown hair. With a shimmery shiny silver base. It wasn't a glitch of the bathroom light flickering it's luminescent onto my head. It was official. The grey has spread.

This should not be happening to me at 30 years of age. Luckily, being Eurasian I don't actually look my age. But then I don't look 21 either - I was served no problemo in the US whereas Girlpants got carded, which did absolutley nothing for my inner zealous child. Personally, I don't buy into the pull one grey out & two more will grow in it's place. I know, because I can prove it with one magnificent flourish of my amazing tweezers - just give me 15 minutes and I would preen to my hearts content & make you feel a million dollars. You'll be in pain but hell, you'll look good.

When I was young, I never used to bother with looks or makeup. My mother used to like dressing me in pink (joy) and then cried the first time I had my hair trimmed. God knows why as the spilt ends had gone to the dogs and it looked like the cat had been grooming me before turning on it's own arse. And now I'm older, do I bother? Do I hell. My abolutions for the evening consist of a hot flannel and a scrub behind the ears. Now, if I feel like a girl, I'll use my make up wipes before the hot flannel et al.

But this grey hair has now got me worrying - does this mean I should now start using pats of cocoa butter on my body & face? Should I start to fight the seven signs of aging? And I pondered, how does a big girl, quivering at the cliff top of middle age deal with this?

So I picked up the phone and booked a body wrap, facial and hair treatment. Well - a girl has to fight the good fight, and make an effort to look bloody good whilst trying.

Life is short, marriage seems long, but if you drink up more, it should goes faster.

Girlpants came home at 8 this evening. He's bought new toys for work and as he's the only one who knows how to set it up, spending the day bashing his head against the wall as he slowly fills up his new rack server. With bits that don't really fit. So today, I went out and looked for things that might make him happy. And I settled on paper umbrellas, twizzler sticks and a cocktail set. You see, my man is in his element when he's trying something new - if it's a success, he's happy and then tries a different one. And I am the drinker of the relationship, so for me it's a win win situation, especially as for the last three years, I have been trying very unsuccessfully to get my man drunk. He's tried ale but doesn't like it as with most lagers or beers. He'll even have the odd glass of wine with a meal. But now, he has discovered the land of cocktails.

Tonight he needed a drink. A big drink. The day had been long and he was tired. So his face lit up when supper was ready as soon as he walked through the door and he saw paper umbrellas lined up in a packet.

Thats my Girlpants - drinks like

looks like

I think when I popped round to Dovedale Road to push a card through the letterbox, someone actually thought that we had had forgotten (to a certain extent) their birthday. Not that Jayne would have minded - she is one of the most cheerful, generous, down to earth and loving people you can ever meet who looks life straight in the face a deals with it. Until we almost gave her a cardiac tonight.

Enter right stage, Tori, Sim & Thea. We had a key to Le Château Billinghurst, and somebody had given me the code to the alarm. And so we prepared. Tori had made the main courses, I of course had forgotten the main ingredient of the starter but then at least the dessert was in the fridge - but by God, we could decorate and blow balloons up, whilst Thea gurgled her approval and tried to help us fathom out how the automatic lighting worked.

Enter centre stage,

the birthday girl herself and the two conspirators, Stu et Girlpants. I fully expected a baseball bat to come around the corner as Jayne thought they had been burgled as the house didn't seem right. But it was smiles and joys all round once she realised we were all in on it and we hadn't made Ella fall over with shock. And once we had given her a glass of the Daskell medicine it all felt better anyways as all feeling from the toes upwards started to disappear.

Now thats a good birthday! :o)

Because there is no way in hell that this is a co-incidence...

Girlpants has been complaining about our lack of Saturdays. Not that they don't exist as opposed to the fact that they are non-days. Nothing spectacular happens. We wake up late, have the obligatory Saturday morning fry up, get ready, faff around the house for the best part of two hours then suddenly decide that maybe going into town to buy things we don't need but want in the sales, come home, debate on dinner, make dinner late and if we're lucky, we're sitting down with food and wine around 9pm having not achieved anything of any consequence for the last 24hours. But today was different. The sky was a clear blue, the day crisp and cold and I had bought tights in anticipation. Today people, we were going up on the moors for a ramble.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against exercise. I do however have a morbid fear of my body complaining and rebelling against me in public. It's just like wearing a bikini - I don't mind the odd strangers being subjected to seeing the excesses of my flesh because I will <touch wood> never ever see them again in my life. However we were going with two other couples that we knew well. This time, I had an audience. Two other couples were joining us in the ramble, one couple for fun and the other to explore the district as they are thinking of purchasing in the area - he knew it, she did not. Whilst I know these people very well, it is in the non-humiliating sense. This time, I was desperately worried about my body failing on me - the last time I had rambled on the moor was for DofE when the had forced me to clamber over six different tors within the timescale of one weekend. My feet were bleeding, blistered and broken and all the tour leaders could say was "don't you feel better for it?". I;ve always felt that they didn't let me continue for my silver after I replied...

Given the DofE experience, I had visions of my reddening face being apparent to all, belaboured breathing that suggested a collapsed lung and knowing that all would look at me and wonder when the guaranteed heart attack was going to occur. It's every womans fear to be caught unguarded in an unglamourous pose. And as a woman who is almost reaching 31, I have no excuse. No children, no illness - just a weakness for fine food and wine. It goes without saying that I took my mothers childhood advice to heart and made sure I had a pair of my best clean knickers on.

So imagine my complete surprise as I galloped ahead, in the lead of the pack drawing in deep gulps of sweet sweet English air. My feet were skimming over the ground, my heart didn't even attempt to drill itself outside of my chest and my cheeks were only slightly reddened by the wind. Maybe the effects from smoking many years ago have finally worn off. Maybe it was my refusal to take escalators or lifts and walking around the college grounds at lunchtime. Maybe, she exclaimed triumphantly, the months of depriving my taste buds and eating devil veg have paid off, and finally I will be able to barge into that damned cow of a nurse's office and proclaim loudly that although I haven't dropped a dress size, I have gained so much more.

Setting out from the Feathers, where I had got slightly tiddly a few weeks before, we ambled past the fire station, past the Princetown Brewery and the tin mine, and eventually followed the old disused railway, over the bridge and heading towards Kingstor.

The views for miles around were fantastic as I pointed out various land marks to the house buying couple. There was Burrator Reservoir in the distance and the various tors surrounding it. Yelverton was a touch further away and the silence was peaceful. Eventually, we didn't walk all the way around to Kingstor and stopped about 3K in to fly the stunt kite the cats had bought me for Christmas. I have never flown a kite before and today I failed miserably. Girlpants had quietly explained before how flying a kite was just like driving a car, but as he watched my performance as the kite nosedived down as soon as I took over the handles, he quietly took the car keys from me

I guess what I'm trying to say is that maybe, just maybe the next time Girlpants suggests going on the moors, that I might not claim a broken leg or that my kneecap has slipped. I say maybe as I know he will read this entry and might take it upon himself to drag me on a couple of laps around Burrator itself, then make me clamber up Sheepstor, the biggest, baddest and steepest on Dartmoor. I did have a wonderful day, so much so that we all started to discuss coming up for a walk again. And despite the fact I had thrown my back out before Christmas, we were even debating riding across the moors, which the boys looked decidedly unhappy about, but which the girls are avidly looking forward to. I might even break my mountain bike out of retirement.

Girlpants - please note the might.

Eventually, as it was getting dark, we all slowly made our way back to Princetown. The sun was setting, the full moon was visable, low in the sky and it was only then, at the end of the day that I rammed my foot in my mouth, as I pointed out the other main landmark around us that the house buying boyfriend had tried painfully to avoid.

Every Friday, the parents, sister and nephew and I meet at Sainburys to do the shopping. I say meet, but in reality I mean that I pick the parents up, whisk them to the land of Jamie Oliver and then walk around with mother whilst father races around the aisles to try and get all the bargains before the granny wagons arrive. When we were young, he used to complain that "your mother has wondered off again!", but now in later years, I realise that it's completely opposite. He lost her and more to the point, refused point blank to admit the fact that whilst waltzing through with a trolley singing "If I were a rich man" he once again lost my mother.

Basically, my father is a drama queen.

Take today. We were in the car - he hefted himself into the passenger seat and as mother and I were talking about babies and birthdays, he turned around suddenly and

Dad - I've seen a pocket watch

Sim - But you have a pocket watch.

Dad - Yes - my fathers

Sim - But you love that pocket watch

Dad - And now I have seen a better one

Sim - Are you saying that Grandad would bequeath his son rubbish?

Dad - No. But then his pocket watch isn't an all singing all dancing without batteries. And this one is. IN GOLD.

OK - so I elaborate - he never said the "all singing all dancing" phrase. I used that to spare you the tedious ramblings, whereas I had to sit there whilst he went into detail about the specs and movements of a random gold plated pocket watch, despite the fact that I was driving. This adoration of the aforementioned pocket watch was making my eye glaze over and my brain drip slowly from my ears - something you should never ever do whilst in control of vehicle.

It wasn't the fact that my father had with magpie glee found yet another useless thing that he didn't want nor need that has got me going here. It was the fact that my father has found yet ANOTHER thing that he neither needed nor wanted that cost

OVER TWO THOUSAND POUNDS!!!

Shall I point out that my father already has a pocket watch? Or the fact that he never wears nor uses it? In fact, several years ago, he asked my brethren and I for a watch for the annual celebration of his birth. Which he has never used. It just sits there in the cabinet, unused. In fact, if you look around the lounge then you would find no less that four clocks in a room that I couldn't swing the cat in. Or a small child. Let's face it - my parents are hoarders. They are both post-war (i.e. WW I & WW II) babies so were indoctrinated that nothing should waste. This thus explains why the parents attic conversion has never been used as an actual room but more like a storage plot. Should you ever need a copy of the News of the World from 1981-1989, then give us a call. Or mega expensive vitamins that have been out of date for the last six years. There are even ceiling tiles from over ten years ago that were supposed to affixed to the conversions ceiling and have since been banned by housing regulations. Don't even get me started on the garage workshop. It's filled to the roof with wood, power tools and anything and everything that couldn't make it's way into the house. Yet more tatt that no-one wants nor needs. But never forget - it's not my father that collecting memorabilia. It's mother.

I've just watched Celebrity Big Brother and I have never cringed at live tv before.

Until tonight.

And now the world sees a new version of our parlimentary elected bodies...and the uncomfortable thing is I think that he's purred like that before.... Hand me the screwdrivers to gouge out my eyes whilst sandpapering any part of my body that needs solace from the pain.

It's cold.

The college has switched it's heating off - there's a new Principal in town and the lady's trying to save money. I don't have anything against that. Even we're trying to save money since the extravaganza known as Crimbo. Girlpants went into his piggy bank the other day and suddenly started asking me exactly how many rounds of beer I had been partaking in lately, whilst I subtlety looked at his ever growing pile Thornton's where the tree once stood.

So whilst he has chocolate to solace himself, I am wearing my new pashima like a headscarf to keep the tips of my ears from turning a lighter shade of blue. Inside the house. At least it's 5 degrees warmer here than the in the chemistry lab. It's not fun to play with acids and bases when your fingernails turn purple, the shivering is playing havoc on your measurements and everyone is wearing a lab coat over their winter ones. A walking tribe of Michelin Men playing with test tubes and bunsens.

But whilst everyone is parcelled up like roast beef on a Sunday, there is the occasional college teen who walks past me in a mini skirt and boob tube. They're the fashion victims who insist on wearing summer clothes twelve months a year. They usually don't have a scrap of fat on them, to the point that you can see their hipbones struggling to keep the denim at a decent level. My man keeps telling me that he loves a woman with curves. A succinct way of telling me that he's a tits and arse man, but it also means that he doesn't mind my annual love handles mobile central heating that keep me warm in the winter. He does however panic about his. As he keep reminding me, with men, it's not love handles.

His manly six packs have slipped.

I did have a grand plan.

• Finish course
• Get job
• Get life
• Start Masters

But with the amount of work they have doled out within one week, am now radically rethinking whether to

• Finish course (as they will charge me beer tokens if I don't)
• Get job
• Get life
• Find that the job market out there is dire and think of plan B
• Actually start to contemplate if Mini Me's may not be such a bad idea despite the sanctity of the womb.

I now have three research projects (one ongoing) and five assignments to complete by Febuary. Hopeless? Maybe. But Girlpants has offered to wear his official Girlpants outfit (tights included) to cheer me up. So there is some laughter and joy at the end of the day. Right after I psychologically question him about his choice of attire. And ask him to get out of my tights...

But extremely talkative after taking two of Girlpants colleagues on a magical mystery tour of the mouth of Ply so they could dwell on the areas in which they would like to buy a house. Needless to say that they are now extremely disillusioned - so much so that we invited them for dinner where Girlpants bollocked me for how much alcohol I was pouring into the tiramasu (thats right people! made from scratch!) and so I solaced myself with a LIIT. Needless to say, the drinking carried on throughout the evening.

My sister made a comment this morning - apparently, when I'm drunk, you can't shut me up. I call friends and family from miles around and talk about generic dribble that only people that truly love me can nod to and pretend to understand. And last night, I was dribbling for three hours straight. I called the mother-in-law, both sisters, my mother and by a sheer chance, managed to misdial Germany (hello Ed!) which is a slight blessing given our last phonebill.

I think that I may start ribena month early this year. Right after I cut my head off.

Today should have been my first day back at college. Unfortunately, my imbibing yesterday meant that I slept through both alarms and eventually woke up for my 9am lecture at 11:45.

When a girl needs to sleep - & fight for duvet, then you just can't stop her...