I don’t want this to reflect badly on my character, but….

These were the opening lines from a young, drunk Irish man to me last night. They were followed by “do you know where a prostitute house is?”

Oooer. Um….no? Not around here anyway

I then directed him to nearby suburb, where urban legend has it, are many a “prostitute house”.

The young lad then preceded to say that he didn’t want myself and the boy to judge him, again that he didn’t want this to reflect badly on his character and hopefully he’d never see us again.

We wished him luck on his endeavour and he went on his merry way. Not, however, before adding “Now….block this from your memory”

No chance.

We walked on, and 10 seconds later saw him get into a taxi and head for said suburb.

Laugh! I nearly did.


Let me begin with saying that I love babies and children. I know many who do not, and that I find understandable, but me myself and I all love les bebes. They, however, do not necessarily love me.

I went to the chiropractor this morgen for emergency back cracking, and in the waiting room I beheld a delightful little cupcake baby. He/she/it was still pretty new, but old enough to hold it’s/his/her head up. It was doing the cutest thing ever and nuzzling it’s mother, snuggling right down into her neck.

On the sly, I was playing games with said babe, making funny faces etc. The Mutter spotted this, and joined in. By this time, the baby’s smiling and laughing, and I’m getting more confident  in my entertaining skills. The Mutter starts playing peek-a-boo with a towel and I bring my arms into play, waving about and gesturing in what I hope is an amusing baby-friendly way. Not so. As Mutter cranks up the towel action, and I’m there waving my arms about like a loon on loon pills, the baby sees me for the dog that I am, and a look of pure hatred comes across it’s chubby face. Mum keeps up with the towel and next thing we know…..it’s vom time.

Quick as a flash, a cascade of yellow puke erupts from the hell hole that is this darling baby’s mouth. Mum’s quick to catch it in the towel, but it’s too late Mum, it’s far too late. I have witnessed that which no person who does not have an emotional connection with a baby should ever witness. I have been to the dark side. I am scarred. It is enough to keep me vigilant about contraception for a good few years.



Gelato in Venezia

mmmm. icecream.

This makes me think of Venice. I am going to go there sometime in the next year with the boy and feckin ingest some gelato, dammit. And we’re going to make memories and no matter what happens between us we’ll always have the memory of standing somewhere in Venice eating an ice cream and in all probability having it drip down my face and onto my top. Which will be white and the ice cream will be chocolate so somehow it seems as though I have miraculously shat on my breast.


(this may or may not have happened before)

Easter Feast (er)

The best thing about Easter is also the worst thing about Easter. After refraining from the chocs for a good two weeks in the lead up, I have now succumbed to the temptation and virtually inhaled about 7kgs of the good stuff.

Which leads to me to this scandalous revelation. Did you know that the Margaret River Chocolate Factory which we all know and love do not, in fact, make their own chocolate? They feckin import it from Belgium, re-melt it and coerce it into fancy shapes. I for one, am devasted. I feel betrayed. As if the foundations upon which I built my moral guide and ethical compass have fallen by the wayside.

Or is it really that dramatic? Is it Sam? Is it?

Who’s to say?

Educating Whatsit

Last eve, mon Père came over to partake in general frivolity and some serious tv watching. We started off with one of my addictions en cette moment, a little show called “Fatty-fatty-loo-loo” something you may know as “The Biggest Loser”. This show’s timeslot just happens to be at 7:30pm, which we all know is prime face-stuffing time, which leads to a certain amount of guilt about what we are doing to ourselves by eating instead of working out at the gymbo, as in RIGHT NOW, but also a sick kind of satisfaction that you are sitting there, eating your filo pastry and not being obese. I am a bad person, I know this.

Anyway, after said program, we three (Pa, the BF et moi) watched a little film called “Educating Rita”. I have this online movie account thingo where I pick movies and they send them straight to my door. I think I’d heard about “Educating Rita” as one of those classic movies that is in society’s consciousness and that witty people quote, etc, but now, having seen the film, there was not one moment that I recognised. I feel deceived. The story is quite charming, but my god, dated as all hell. Julie Walters plays Rita, (you may know her as Mrs Weasley) and seriously, that woman came out of the womb looking 55. She looks great now, like she’s really come into her own, but that is because she was always meant to be a 55 year old. Not a 26yr old hairdresser with a questionable Liverpool accent. Well, the accent’s pretty good, better than I can do, but still.

The best bit was realising that my uncle, Jack, was an extra in the film playing a snooty student, and that he was in pretty much every single scene. Therefore, by my reasoning, I pretty much know Julie Walters, which means I know Rupert Grint from Harry Potter, which pretty much means that I AM FAMOUS.