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!

Am drunk. I was fine until I came home, then I knelt over whilst cooking and smashed a glass. And he warned me! (and then cleaned up around me).

Girlpants is not impressed. And it's his conference...

I think I may have lost Girlpants respect for a while, within this evening timescale. Am not impressed with myself at all - I can only think that one redeeming point is that I have at least moved on behaving for myself bar knocking my knee... And it hurts. My own fault because I was a good girl before this. Or at least, that's what I promised myself. I didn't even insult the Lord Mayor once. I even scrubbed up. I wore heels and apparently looked different - half the size I used to be according to one peep, which I wasn't too sure to take as a compliment or insult as either 2 years ago, I was huge or now, my heels balance out my arse. I wasn't going to argue there, but laughed off whilst suddenly realising how much my toes hurt.

But I knew it would take less than 30 mins to cock up. And once, in the sanctuary of home, I did.

Ouch.... (My knee hurts!)

Urrrgh - why why why do I do this? Am such a muppet.

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.

It's had been a busy day, with conference stuff that I have been roped into (how?), delegates and new father of the baby coming into the office to get some peace work done. When finally, we managed to kick our shoes off and sit on the sofa for our Doctor Who fest, including finale.

So it was only a minor set back when we doubled checked and found that TiVo, the reliable, had recorded all of the episodes bar one - the impossible planet. Gah! There would be another 2 day wait before I see the clash of Darleks -v- Cybermen.

grrrrrrr!

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.