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...

After the experiences from over two years ago, you'd wonder why we would want to foray back into the world of house selling.

But we were back in the saddle when we saw this:

With a 80ft garden and a bathroom to die for, how could we resist?

So now I've been scrubbing, cleaning, decluttering and painting - all to shift the second mortgage so we can move into the family sized home. There - I've said it. Not that I'm with bump or anything silly like that - how could the world possibly cope with a sudden decline in the gin market?? The economy would slump! So no - for the greater good, no little feet expected soon around the place as apparently we're only moving as I have too many clothes and the cats take up too much space on the bed. So now they get a bedroom each. And in return, I get a spanking new humongous solid oak dining table.

The chairs however, cost extra :(

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.

The problem with a head cold, besides getting rid of the bugger, is the inability to breathe. You can't talk, sleep, smell nor taste properly. Not usually a problem but Girlpants was away in Wales and I was at home, first day off and on cat duties. And my biggest problem was the inability to taste or smell.

So imagine how my lovely meal of fish cakes and salad looked - it was alas all cardboard to me - but away I munched, followed closely by a cup of tea. And then it happened - an hour later and the stomach convulsions started. There was a rumble in the jungle and it wasn't a prize match - I so lost!

12 hours later, I felt a bit better. There was a complete lack of sleep but at leaat there was nothing in the belly to make me feel worse. So that goober in the corner making another cuppa in the morning to settle the tum would be me - after all, you wouldn't be a Brit without a cuppa in the morning. And an hour later, the convulsions started up. Again. Another 12hour vom-fest that took up the day, that the cats enjoyed as they sat on me, and meant that all my careful "make the most of my day off" plans went pissing in the wind. The moral of the story is, if you can't smell nor taste, check the date on the milk before you pop a tetleys in the cup.

But on a plus side, at least I lost a eikle bit of weight...