I haven't blogged for a while and with good reason. I hate lying and I have a couple of secrets that that been quite difficult to keep in. To add to that, I am absolutely crud at lying. My cheeks flame up, I lose eye contact and then ye olde Catholic guilt kicks in.

Needless to say, no booze has been involved with this secret. I apologise if we haven't been able to be in touch in person, but things have been hectic with work, deadlines and families. Meanwhile, Girlpants has insisted that I tell the world my inner thoughts via here to see how long it would take for the news to out - a wee bit of a social experiment as it were. So here I type. However, despite the salivating jaws, there are no tales of espionage, no blackmail, no affair. The secrets are quite simply this:

One

I was one year older two weeks ago. Thank you to all those who remembered. And no. For once, I did not get drunk.

Two

I found four, yes four! grey hairs on that blessed day which did not make me happy.

Three

That's right folks. It's a blob and it's invaded my space.

 Now Girlpants would like to claim that this now proves that a) he is no longer a girl and b) he wears trousers, not pants. But I beg to differ as we had a deal when we married - this was his job even if he dragged medical science kicking and screaming with him. And as far as I'm concerned, he's renegade on the deal. Meanwhile he's sipping cider whilst slowly my clothes are feeling ever so ever so uncomfortable, unable to eat "steak bleu", paté or runny eggs with a fry up. It's just not fair...

In the midst of this humble selflessness, I would also like to stand up and say "Hi. My name is Sim and I haven't drunk gin for several weeks." Actually longer than several weeks which just goes to prove my long standing assertion that should I ever stop drinking my favourite tipple, then the gin stocks would be put under threat and suffer. Ahh - to be proven right...

My new and rather homely doctor would prefer that I refer to this as a parasitical life form as opposed to blob but either would do I suppose. Apparently it's quite proficient in sucking the very nutrients, being and even the calcium from my bones. Nice. But that's okay - mini-hd will have years to more than make it up to me and I am already chalking up a number of chores for wee hands. Until then, I suppose Girlpants will have to continue to do the ironing.

You would think that the lovely, long, big box that was delivered to my office this morning may have been an early delivery of roses as the other half had accidently booked himself away on business for the entirety of valentines. This lovely box was delivered to my room, all securely wrapped and lo and behold, when I opened it I found…

A sodding grout gun! Har blooming har!

He’s dead.

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?