Just What The Psychiatrist Ordered!

Apologies to the throbbing millions of you who have been waiting patiently for my next blog update, but I've simply been too busy to put weary digit to key - but hey, I'm here now! I've just put the phone down from my dear friend Olga, who I've not spoken to in many moons, and I feel like an alcoholic falling off the wagon.

You see Waldorf and Statler (some lesser friends of mine) just don't cut the mustard, and Waldorf has a particularly annoying habit of turning every topic of conversation back to her or hers. For example, if Bart has just cut a tooth her son has cut two in the shape of Disney characters: if Keith farted in bed last night and left me with a centre parting, her husband farted and followed through whilst humming "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen - you get the picture?! It's so exasperating I'm seriously contemplating telling her that I've spent the entire evening wanking myself into exhaustion - just to see what she says. It may backfire and we end up comparing bicep density, you never know. Olga has almost dared me to do it, and I wouldn't put it past me, but I'll have to get back to you and let you know.

Olga on the other hand is a feat of friendship engineering, knows just what to say and when and isn't in the least bit perturbed with anything I tell her, however hard I try. Yes, Olga baby I know you're reading this, which is why I wrote it - thanks for the laugh tonight, I really needed it, and I couldn't have done it without you.