Oh! That can't be good...

It may come as some surprise that I don't do spicy - or anything that could be considered interesting and flavoursome. In the culinary sense you understand?! It was only when Sarah came home from nursery - nursery! - aged 2, telling me all about the delicious curry they'd given her for lunch, that I thought perhaps I should give it a go - besides, how bad could it be? We have been enjoying the blandest Korma's ever since; until, that is, I was unable to purchase our usual brand of Korma sauce last night in the supermarket - so I decided to be brave and buy a Tikka Masala instead.

Two hours have passed since Keith and I finished our meal, and there may be trouble ahead. The outlook is not good. You have to understand that my constitution demands yogurt be served with Worcestershire Sauce crisps, and Pickled Onion Monster Munch are for only the brave or insane in my book. My gastrointestinal system is a delicate and sensitive little darling, which can - if disrespected and provoked - turn into a lethal and unstoppable force of evil. And tonight is that night ladies and gentlemen. Evidently I have overstepped the mark - I have disrespected my guts. It has begun: houseplants are dead, newspapers are combusting, eggs are sizzling in the fridge - even the glass jar the sauce came in has melted. I foolishly bent over to empty the dishwasher, let out what I thought was an innocent seeper and the lounge door was gone! Come to think of it, I haven't since Keith since I came round; I wonder if he made it?

Tomorrow looks like it's going to be one of those days where I'll be glad we have the bath and basin on either side of the loo - I'm gonna need to take hold. I'm always complaining that I can't even have five minutes peace - not even on the loo. With the whole street evacuated, at least I'll get my five minutes peace!

Inevitable Signs of Aging

Well, it had to happen sometime I suppose: I'm at the stage and age in my life where I've realised that not only is time marching on, but it's marching all over my face! I have developed what we all call laughter lines - although frankly nothing's that funny - and when I bend down to pick something up off the floor, I ask myself if there's anything else I could be doing whilst I'm down there.

Keith - who is three years older than I - has for a while now spent considerable time in front of the mirror pulling out the grey hairs he can see from the front and side of his head. I haven't the heart to tell him of the Mallen streak at the back!

Although I too am greying distinguishably, I have taken solace in the fact that my grey hair has not yet ventured south. Imagine then my horror when I happened upon the longest, thickest and whitest pubic hair imaginable - I was simply beyond consolation; heartbroken I was - wailing like a banshee. I spent the afternoon drinking cocoa and ordering myself a big slipper from http://www.youareoldnowhaha.com/. All I had to look forward to now was a moustache, hairy warts and inexorably long and yellowing toe nails, oh the despair. I always thought old age was for other people; and I got zero sympathy from Keith, who impatiently told me to pull myself together as my singular big, long, thick and white pubic hair was in fact a tampon string. Oops.

I'M BACK!

Yes, I know you've all missed me but I've been very busy completing our company website, surviving the school summer holidays and enduring a camping trip in the most luxurious tent money can buy. Keith loves camping. No really, he LOVES camping. I, on the other hand, loathe camping. Why did God invent spa hotels if we really were meant to piss in a bucket? It's just not right. The damn tent took us 8 hours to erect and 8 hours to put away, and we were only away for four days! Then the swimming pool had to be filled (not to mention emptied), and the servant's quarters decorated. The butler kicked off because he didn't like the shade of green we'd chosen for his en-suite and the whole thing just got ugly. Honestly, it was more trouble than it was worth.

The school summer holidays were excruciatingly long - seven weeks! Seven weeks = 49 days = 1176 hours = 4233600 seconds! But it felt longer! Believe it or not Scrabble got me through the darkest of days, and I even conscripted Olga into playing - badly - but bless her she tried her best! This is the type of online Scrabble with words you've never even heard of permitted - and even the expletives you have heard of are permitted. In no fewer than three moves I had managed F.U.C.K O.F.F W.A.N.K.E.R. to a creepy guy who thought he was God's gift to anagrams - and I Triple Worded him too, which was cause for a little Running Man boogie around these parts.

The Shaggers next door are no more - he's gone - so we're left with a solitary Shagette whose fingers must be worn out bloody stumps by now - I can't imagine how she's coping without the delights of the male anatomy. Perhaps I'm judging everyone by my own standards, but it may be just as well to invest in Duracell now before the rush. I caught a good glimpse of Shagette and her son Igor over the holidays (they're reasonably new to the area), and never a more bizarre duo have I had the displeasure of looking upon. Speaking as a stunning natural beauty myself, Shagette has the highest and most pronounced forehead I've ever seen, but at least the top of her head is domed. You may now be wondering why I've just remarked upon her domed head. Well, it's because Igor's head is pointed. I kid you not, the sides of his head go up and up from his high pronounced forehead and then collapse to form an apex - I have no idea how his mother finds hats for him, but she clearly considers it important to do so, as the beastly Igor has many. Perhaps his misshapen head frightens his class mates, who knows - I shall keep an eye on the local headlines and let you know.

Well, I think that's enough of me for now. I'm sure it's been a pleasure and I'll try to update more frequently now that life has settled down. Please feel free to leave your comments - I'd love to hear from you.