After watching my father drag his 40+ year old bathroom from furnished and usable to barely stripped bare, Girlpants and I decided to take over. Mother was ushered out of the house, father was placed on bacon butty duties and we started to work - Girlpants in YMCA overalls and me in fashionable cords.

Sledgehammers and mallets at the ready, we got het up, ready for action. No holds barred, I also used the opportuntiy to advise my father of his clear inability to colour co-ordinate and style a room (whoever has heard of geometric patterned carpet in a bathroom??). So whilst my father went back downstairs to grill the bacon and lick his wounds, both of us attacked the old steel bathtub. Which refused to move. An inch. The thin chisel didn't help. A barrage of blows from the mallet just bounced off the surface, and the sledge hammer just put a bit of a ding in the side panel. Forty years of establishing itslef as the major centrepeice of the bathroom and years of fathers over enthusiastic grouting and tiling had clearly cemented the bath to the wall. Fast forward four hours later, and we had finally managed to pry it away from the wall which comically ended with my falling on my rear end, only to discover that the draft I had felt in the bathroom as a child was due to a builders inability to correctly build a solid wall without leaving gaping holes in the side. Slowly, as we starting pulling muscles that had never before existed as we carried the steel bath down the stairs and out into the back garden, I began to realise that maybe we weren't going to fit the entire bathroom in one weekend.

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.