Darhlings! Tonight I went to an awards ceremony where one of the guests of honour was little old moi. Not that I haven't won anything before - I do remember that I did win the egg and spoon race in class three at primary, mainly because mother kept the handwritten certificate written by the unpaid class assistant. But tonight, I was one of 34 stars who had excelled in our disciplines, nominated for prizes. But this time, it was a potential money prize!! Either that, or a certificate, and a possible book voucher.

So, being the slut for money that I am, I glammed it up in my glad rags (this time not so revealing due to the cunning use of tit tape and safety pins), eyeballs in and make up on, ready for the moment. Only to find I was nervous, and therefore kept reaching for the wine glass. And for good reason... Father was there with the camcorder ready to record, only to zoom in the wrong direction and aim towards the classical eastern Europeans pianist's arse, whilst mother fluffed her hair and avoided the wine, staying on the orange juice just to keep an eagle-eye on father. And I noted that everyone around me was dressed in suits - even Girlpants looked fine in his suit in the corner, whilst I was shooed away by marketing for a cliché group cleavage shot, surrounded by young slim girls in skinny dresses and everyone else in trouser and dress suits. Thank God the tit tape kept sticky as I had to walk a long gauntlet with my two grasping hands outreaching for those two silver envelopes. And as one held a very healthy cheque, I contemplated how I shall be pottering to the bank and then round the shops tomorrow, as I finished my fourth glass of wine of the evening. Hurrah!

Is there something in the water??

First of all Keith closes then thankfully reopens his blog mainly becuase he didn't know there were fans lurking in the background, then Milady goes AWOL due to hectic lifestyles (yay for her return!) - the Urban Gypsy has disappeared ever since she managed to make her way over to Oz, the Special Constable (aka Lennie Briscoe) upgrade to Blogger Beta and his blog has disppeared (it is rumoured that he's re-encarnated as another blog) and now Chai has closed for business. In fact, his blog has been stripped to just one entry for this month, which makes me think that this isn't a decision he's taken lightly.

I do feel sad when I see that a blog has been suspended or ended, but then as I've partook in that well needed break last year, I can understand why. But then I do feel a little bit more lonely in this big vast world when it occurs, as I still feel that I've lost a good friend, even it is for a little while.

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.

I'm pretty spoiled in the little data den where I work - not only am I the office flunky comic relief and therefore much beloved in my domain, not only are we squirrelled away from prying eyes, but I'm being paid mullah for the first time in a long time. Weekly as well. And I love it! It's mine, all mine (okay - ours, given the joint bank account). And as I relish this new money coming in notion, I want to make our money work as hard as it can for us. Whilst I was in Cyprus, BB was advising us on tax breaks, how to save and where to save. It seems that BB of mine is fed up of a certain Scotsman syphoning off his hard earnt cash. And it got me thinking.

Take a single pound that I'm paid as an example. I'm taxed on the money I earn - that leaves me with my current tax allowance with 90p. I'm also taxed on my savings so take off more money there, taxed on the necessary purchases I have to make such as food so make even more deductions, then there's my gas, electric, water, for local council activities, taxed for moving house, making money on my home and for driving on the road. Even when I die, I'll be taxed. Also, I'm apparently also going to be taxed on rubbish collections (which I foolishly believed was part of the council tax), they're mooting a new tax on alcohol to stop binge drinkers (like the youngsters aren't going to rifle through their grans purses) and they're trialling a new type of road tax that you're going to have to pay per mile, per type of road and the time of day travelled. And then there's the whammy!

There's discussion mooting new powers that could be granted to Northern Ireland council tax inspectors - my quick laypersons (i.e. I could be wrong) skim read of the tabloids tell me that if the law is changed and rolled out over the UK, then tax inspectors would have the right to enter a home without a warrant to check for home improvements. Basically, inspectors will have more rights than the police when it comes to entry in your own home. The more the improvements, the more tax will be imposed on the home owner and to refuse entry to the inspectors may lead to an automatic and increasing weekly fines.

It must be said that these are ideas being bounced around by those in Parliament, who at the end of a hard working day quoff back cheap, subsidised alcohol in one of the commons bar's. They may not even come into affect. However, as the single pound from my wages melts into negative numbers, from stealth taxes, daily expenses and the basic urge to live, I can't help thinking of my pensioner parents, who have slogged so hard in my childhood home to make it better, that they may have to end up selling the place they love in order to make ends meet. Not forgetting to pay the stamp duty in the meanwhile.

Maybe BB has it right - maybe my parents should move to warmer climbs, transfer their penbsions over so they are taxed less, and where the cost of living is considerably lower. They can avoid all the heavy expenses here and enjoy their days in relative comfort but without the closeness of us nearby. But then, thinking about it - it will never happen. My father would complain about the heat, food and language barrier whilst fanning himself with the Daily Mail with his socks and sandles on, whilst mum wouldn't want to leave us behind. Which basically leaves us in blighty. Paying our taxes.