The love of my life is moving with a little more ease today, and as I am not working today suggested we have lunch at one of the local pubs to cheer me up, as my mood has been one of the most extreme, abject misery of late. Not a bad lunch as far as counter lunches go. Could have done without the spray of lemon juice hitting my left eye as I dressed my barramundi. Similarly could have gone without the squirt of vinaigrette in my right eye when I bit into my salad. Can truly say it was a balanced meal. I spent much of the meal blinking and squinting like a stunned koala, who has just been hit in the eyes with the beam of a dolphin torch, perhaps held by an interrogative cop ('Confess, Bugsy! We know ya did it!').
Chopper Read has passed on. Do I care? For his wife and children, yes. For him? No.
I saw a tweeted picture of Mariah Carey's boosies today - cupped seductively in a black lacy bra, with a message of promise to her husband. Why do celebrities feel it necessary to do this? ('Hey, everyone! I have flattering undergarments and have sex with my husband occasionally!'). This is private stuff. Is nothing sacred? Will a tweeted promise from your blogger here that all manner of conjugal delights await her husband when his back feels better increase the sales of my books? Lately, starlets seem to be tweeting photos of their butts in G-strings. ('Hey, look everybody! My butt can crack a walnut - my songs are pretty pedestrian but how about this butt, hey? And I bet you all have butts like twin blobs of gelatinous wobbling blancmange!').
Was going to write on the next book today, but fell asleep. It's the heat, the stress, daylight savings - you name it. Of course, going out to lunch ate (heh-heh!) into my allotted writing time, too, but I think it did my husband the world of good to just get out of the house. When I'm doing paid work, I sometimes take house-bound people out for respite and we'll just have a coffee. It really does them the world of good. The other day I was feeding an elderly woman, and wouldn't you know it? 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang' was on. I looked at her and started to sing along with Professor Potts, his children, and Truly Scrumptious. Come on, you all know it: 'You're sleek as a thoroughbred/your seats are a featherbed....'. And the old lady smiled at me. Now, anybody who has ever heard me sing could construe my little performance as elder abuse (I am a phenomenally bad singer), but she enjoyed it, and so did I.
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