Extremely long and mind-numbing, as promised.

Surfers Paradise. Beautiful, mostly-clean beaches. Gazillions of tourists. Tacky shops selling Australian souvenirs made in China. Home of 'Schoolies Week', where children celebrate leaving school with an orgy of drugs, booze, and sex with strangers. Yes, it is indeed a pervert's heaven. Home of backpackers galore, who walk into bottle shops with a shopping trolley and leave with it full to the brim with booze.

Home to people who can't hold their alcohol. Eighteen-year old punks who yell loudly because they've had two schooners of Tooheys and proceed to dance around with their pants down. John and I walked around on Friday night and picked out the people we'd most like to marry.

John: It's not fair. There's way more potential husbands for you than there are wives for me.
Me: Yes. Spoilt by choice. I'll narrow down my selection criteria. My new husband needs to be: drunk, loud, obnoxious, arrogant...
John: You're not narrowing it down very much.
Me: ...they've got to have unruly facial hair, foul body odour, they must be incoherent, illiterate, and homeless.
John: I think we better head back to Brisbane.

Some 'highlights':

My INSANE Comedy Skills:

John and I were going to the train station. We passed two other commuters who were speaking a different language.

John: I think those people were Russian.
Me: Yeah. Russian FOR THE TRAIN. HAHAHAHAHA.
John: ...

The Q1 Building and THE MEETING:

The tallest building in Australia, and the 20th tallest in the world, but only because they put a really huge spike on the top of it. Which is just cheating, really. I could put an incredibly enormous spike on the top of my house and then call it one of the tallest buildings in the world, too.



Yeah. It was high.



YEAH. IT WAS HIGH.

This was where we sat and chatted with John's Reader and her boyfriend, which was quite lovely. Very chatty and normal and proof that real human beings do actually partake in this internet business.

It was quite strange in parts, though, like when they went into blog mode and started saying, "I liked it when you posted that thing" "Yeah and I liked it when you did that thing" "Yeah and what's with that thing you did the other day?" And I am thinking HEY. I AM THE BLOGGER.

Also,

Her: So, are you feeling better? And, did you enjoy your birthday trip up to Mt. Tamborine? Did you manage to resolve that other thing you were having problems with? And how about that mouse, eh?
Me: Um. Yeah. And, uh, how are you?

Thanks to those guys for taking those photos, by the way. Even though they won't read this. Thanks. Thanks also for taking a million photos of the back of my head, providing me with sidebar profile pictures for years to come.

The Worst Band in the World:

One of a couple of pubs we visited on Friday night was Gilhooleys, which seemed respectable enough. Irish dancers pranced about on the floor and stamped their feet loudly and I realised that they actually do exactly the same routine in every Gilhooleys I have ever been to. It's the Gilhooleys routine. I will soon know it by heart.

The band started playing, and they were obviously quite good. The bass player was amusing because he kicked his feet randomly. The lead singer and guitarist was a talented chap. And then they played a song that I know quite well.

It was Scar by Missy Higgins. Shut up. Not a favourite song, but I do happen to know all of the words. The lead singer launched into the tune with enthusiasm.

"He left a card, a bar of soap and a ha-ir brush..."

I'm sorry now? Surely you mean a 'scrubbing brush'?

"..next to a note that said 'use these, down to your homes'..."

HOMES? Surely you mean 'bones', my son. I shot him an evil glare to see if he was aware of what he was doing.

"And before I do I have shiny skin and it felt breezy being seen like him..."

Before you KNEW, singer. BREEZY? You mean EASY. And what is this 'seen' BULLSHIT, when you obviously mean clean?

I dug my nails into the table. Gritted my teeth. My eyes bulged out of their sockets.

"Finish. Your. Drink." I said to John, and he got a very distinct Do Not Mess With Me vibe.

"I. Hate. This. Band. We. Are. Leaving." I said, unable to speak without large, dramatic pauses between words.

And so we did. Sing the wrong words, will you? PUNKS. Assume that everyone is so drunk that they won't notice? GRR.

Instances like this make me realise that I am very odd indeed.

Infinity! And Spacewalker.

Two of the tourist traps in Surfers, I was inexplicably drawn to them with their flashy lights and techno blaring over the speakers.

Infinity is basically a large maze mainly composed of mirrors, with lighting effects and strobe lights and lasers designed to cause seizures in the young and heart attacks in the old. You put glow-in-the-dark gloves and shoe-covers on and off you go. I actually quite enjoyed it, to be honest.

We bought a tandem ticket with its buddy tourist trap, Spacewalker. This one wasn't so great as the bulk of it was made up of 'informative' videos in which teenagers say things like, 'woah, that's cosmic!' and 'that's mentally indelible!' The staff keep yelling 'HELLO EARTHLINGS' at you, too, and it was getting so annoying that I was about to kick some alien arse.

But hey now, you've got to trust the reputation of a company with a guestbook like this:



Click on it so you can get the detail, and please note that the four lines with red asterisks have obviously been written by the same person.

You've got to love it when the staff fill out the guestbook.

Hello there.

I have returned from my rain-soaked trip away and will do a very boring 'and then we went to the beach'-type of write-up shortly. But I need to plough through the photos and see if there's anything worth posting first and foremost. And then I have to copy the photos, resize them, upload them and so on and so forth and GOSH, BEST BLOG CONTENT EVER.

And I don't actually have the link to John's blog, by the way. Should've mentioned that in my last post, come to think of it. Sorry 'bout that. But I swear that if he gives it to me, or if I track it down in a 'curiosity killed the cat' frenzy, then I'll give it you. Even if he has put pictures of me up there in which I might possibly look HIDEOUS, because he's crap at telling the difference between good photos and bulgy and zitty photos.

The chicken shnitzel, or the chocolate chip biscuits?

Ready? Ok.

So, I found out a while ago that John has a blog. Because he can't help but COPY ME. He told me when we were drunk and then I said something along the lines of 'gosh, beer ish yummo' and fell asleep. I promptly forgot about it from there.

He brought it up a while later and my memory returned to me, slightly groggy and minus a few braincells.

Thing is, I gather that this blog is all about me. ME. Moi. GBE. Gee-Bee-ee. The odd girl with the crap hair and the boring job.

Which is weird, but hey, who am I to talk?

Right, so, turns out he has loads of readers, who comment about me, and give him their thoughts on me, my life, our relationship, etc. How I call him 'gitface' when he annoys me and the way I'm always yelling 'SHUT YOUR PIEHOLE, YOU KNOB!' at Reg. How I belch loudly after meals/beer and how I always pick Old English cheese at Subway, and then nudge him, giggling and saying 'John, look, it's you in cheese form'.

I can only imagine.

The thing is, when we go away tomorrow (oh, by the way, going away tomorrow, won't be back for a few days, etc.), there very well may be a meeting arranged. With one of his readers.

One of his readers!

FREAK OUT!

It will involve meeting a person (for I am invited, you see) who knows me. Knows me. You know. Sort of. Knows stuff about me. Which is, well, weird. Not weird, but weird. Here's some more randomly italicised words.

And I don't know what to do. Will I live up to expectation? Will I belch enough, make enough random comments, and frequently abuse objects/people with juvenile insults, like 'poobreath', 'knobjockey' and 'crapface'?

It is going to be easier than meeting somebody who reads this, of course, because then you would discover that I'm actually very quiet, and keep my sense of humour to myself, mainly, and can't physically bring myself to burp in front of people I've known for less than five years.

Golly gosh. What do I do?

Today, there was a meeting.

An unexpected meeting. It is apparently a meeting that everyone in the company has to go through at this time of year, though, being completely oblivious to anything relating to my employment besides 'why is my pay one day late, punks?' I was not aware it was coming.

There was some brief chat about targets and strengths and weaknesses and some mention of 'low-hanging fruit' and 'pooling our resources.' She probably harangued me about my TPS reports and not wearing enough flare.

I had zoned out at that point.

She then asked me where I want to go in the company. What my plans were. Whether I had any Long-Term Goals. And then I opened my mouth.

"Well, Supervisor, working in insurance isn't exactly my dream job."

Oooh, good start, me.

"I think that my, uh, strengths lie in other areas. That is, I don't actually like customer service. Um. What I mean to say, is, um, I'd rather not actually speak to, you know, people."

WELL DONE ME.

"Ok," she replied, somewhat hesitantly. "Uh, well there's areas within the company with more of an admin focus, if that's what you mean?"

"Oh, yes," I replied, not wanting to seem an utter twat. "An admin focus." I nodded furiously. "That's what I mean."

"Well I think that you have a great rapport with the customers, you know. You shouldn't underestimate yourself."

"Thanks. Um." I pause. "Yeah, no, I don't really want to talk to them."

"Ok." She sighs, audibly. "Let's run over..."

"HEY!" I cut her off, suddenly, filled with enthusiasm spawned by the thought that she might actually give a shit. "I'm thinking about travelling for even longer when I go away next year, and then QUITTING!"

Oh. My. God. If anyone is skilled in the art of wiring mouths closed, then Hook Me Up.

"Ok, well keep me posted on that." She starts tidying her books and papers in a 'Yes, I am most definitely leaving' manner.

"Um, thanks for the meeting."

"No problem."

Is it any wonder that I can only find monkey's work?

Last night.

Perhaps the most intelligent conversation in which I have partaken in quite a while:

Drunken bricklayer: Were you born in Australia?

Which I find to be quite a strange question, actually. Do most people assume that other people were not born in Australia? But then again, I was there with John, who is so English I should really refer to him as Mr. Cup o' tea 'n' Toad in the 'Ole.

Me: No, actually. I was born in Wales.
Him: OH. Haw haw. Did you see any WHALES in WALES? HAW HAW HAW.
Me: [rolling my eyes] No, surprisingly not. But I did see WHALES in New South WALES.
Him: Oh, so there's no WHALES in WALES but there is in New South WALES? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I thought he was going to fall over, it was so damn funny.

Today.

John and I were waiting for a bus after a completely unsuccessful expedition in the city, during which time I gave up on the idea of ever finding a dress that I like and decided that I will wear Doc Martens and jeans and will just avoid nice restaurants and go to kebab shops instead. To our left was perhaps the largest puddle of spew that mankind has ever seen.

The bus stop is outside a pub, you see.

This puddle was an absolute Barry Crocker. During the ten minutes we spent waiting for the bus, I managed to deduce that the spewer had eaten Chinese for dinner - containing hokkien noodles and beef - and that it had been consumed no less than ten minutes before it all came back up.

A boy started heading towards us. Thirteen or fourteen, I'd say, with headphones plugging his ears and a soccer ball. That is, he was kicking the soccer ball, rather than using it to plug his ears. He was nudging it along the ground and kicking it up in the air while his younger brother and father trailed along behind.

He nudged it closer. Then a bit closer.

Then it rolled straight through the spew.

The look on his face was absolutely priceless. I covered my mouth with one hand and clutched my side with the other. John almost fell over in a coughing fit. I damn near wet my pants as he gingerly picked the ball up and started scraping it on the wall of the pub, desperately trying to remove any traces of Beef Surprise.

His younger brother yelled 'EWWW!' loudly, to add to his embarrassment. His father tutted and shook his head. I almost fell off my seat.

Sometimes I wonder if I have the mentality of a twelve-year old.

The usual bollocks.

• If you are in Brisbane, can you please go to the Dymocks at the bottom of the mall and buy Nabokov's Lolita, because it is only $9.95. BARGAIN. A Confederacy of Dunces is also the same price, if that's your bag. If you go around lunchtime and see a quiet girl dressed worky and spending money on books when she really shouldn't be, then hi there. How's it going.
• Brilliant Brisbane Babes Blogging, OOH!
• The mini-break has been planned. After weighing up the options, we decided on good ol' Surfers Paradise, because John still falls under the 'tourist' category and he hasn't done many of the Queensland bits yet. We booked one of those mystery deals where the hotel refuses to reveal its name until the very end because it's Oh So Cheap, and then discovered we had booked the bloody Marriott for a third of the normal price. Which is great, but I cannot help but envisage myself walking into the posh foyer in pluggers, carrying a backpack, after using public transport and smelling like my own sweat as well as that of other people, and the looks of disdain I can expect. If you are in the Courtyard Marriott in Surfers Paradise between 27 - 29 July and you see a red-faced hippie carrying a backpack and being followed by a weird Englishman, then hi there. How's it going.
• I am sick. Once again. Bad time of year, or something. And I have no sick leave, so I am basically taking unpaid leave. Which means I am highly poor right now.
• Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for meeeeee.
  

Ok. So maybe the mouse has left a gaping (yet well-rested) void in my life. I must re-learn the art of blogging about nothing. Teach me, sensei.

It had been the worst night yet.

The scratching had started at 11:30pm and continued until the early hours of the morn. I dragged myself out of bed several times, and discovered that pounding on the floor made the little bastard shut the hell up for a few minutes, but resistance was, indeed, futile.

I stomped around the house after my alarm went off. "We have GOT to do something about that mouse," I declared. "Let's redouble our efforts, call in the troops, buy and bait Every Fricking Trap that Coles has on offer."

I picked up my work bag.

"I mean, seriously. I'VE HAD ENOUGH."

I pulled out my empty lunch container from the day prior. I looked down at my hand.

THE MOUSE! THE FRICKING SON OF A WHORE ARSING MOUSE!

ON. MY. HAND.

I am not shitting you. Keep in mind that John has never actually seen the mouse at all, whereas I have had it leap out of a washing machine at me, fly up and smack me in the face, and then, the icing on the cake, pulled its little furry body out of my work bag.

I dropped it on the floor. Shrieked. Yelled, "I DON'T BELIEVE IT," at a reasonable volume. Watched him scurry under the bed.

And the search began.

I continued getting ready for work and John pulled out every bag from under the bed, of which there were many, seeing as I use it as my main storage space. He pulled out a roll of Christmas paper and peered through the middle, not entirely unlike a sailor.

"Ah... hah," he said.

We did what any normal people would do. We folded down the ends of the roll and sticky-taped them shut while we further considered our options.



Me: What should we do?
John: I don't know. What do you think we should do?
Me: I don't know. What do you think we should do?
John: I don't know.
Me: Me either.

I went to work.

I called John at lunchtime and he informed me that we no longer have a mouse problem. Which sounds quite sad, really. You're imagining poor mousey being fed his last meal, being asked whether he had any last requests, and being given John's passport for one last wee, aren't you?

It would be nice to say that we released him in a field full of wild flowers and peanut butter and watched him frolic with the other mice, but truth be told, I'm fairly certain that the little son of a bitch is in Mouse Heaven.

RIP, Mousey.

(Or rather, Try And Rest In Peace While Somebody Makes Scratching Noises Next To Your Head For All Of Eternity, Mousey. Yeah.)

Some old-fashioned bullet pointage, to show that my entire life doesn't revolve around That Little Furry Son of a Bitch.

• Quite amusingly for all involved, I somehow bluffed my way into the Top Six Salespeople in a recent competition at work, and was put to the test against the other five for Two Solid Hours of sales. I very loudly said, 'Two hours of sales! Somebody slit my wrists,' to no avail. I came joint-last with two others, but received half a day off as a reward for getting there in the first place. What a load of bollocks.
• But, half a day off! As I am working this Saturday and receiving the following Friday as an RDO, it makes sense to throw the half-day in for good measure and have a FABULOUS holiday. Alas, I am mighty poor, so my options are quite limited. I am thinking of flying off to another part of Australia, but am not entirely sure where. (I was going to go for the Alice Springs experience, but this has since been ruled out, because the flights are so pricey I would need to sell my organs and whore my shell of a body to pay for them.)
• I am thinking about taking unpaid leave when I go to South America next year, extending the trip to include Brazil, and coming home, QUITTING, and getting a job with a travel agent. Excuse me while I completely alter the course of my life YET AGAIN. I am a big twat.
• My mobile phone was being a right arse and didn't deliver any of my messages until Friday evening, when I discovered four voicemail messages. Three of them were from the real estate organising some repair work, and the third was eight minutes of a little girl CRYING. She wailed 'mummy' a few times, too. To say I was freaked out would be quite an understatement.
  

And now, to move right along to the subject occupying the most mind space:

Mousey McTwatFace is yet to die. The little shit is outsmarting us at every turn, and I discovered the night after the Indian Drums incident that the intolerable scratchyscratch noises occurring every night will apparently continue, despite removing mousey's stenchy nest.

I think he is getting under the floorboards. Or inside the walls. I am truly going bananas. I get up every night, wearing naught, and stamp on the floor loudly. Then I crouch down on the floor and push my ear to the floorboards. Scratchscratchscratch. I punch the floor, and then curl up in the foetal position, or rock gently back and forth. Scratchscratchscratch.

Can't. Sleep.

Scratchscratchscratch.

I crawl back to bed, defeated, and lay there, unblinking, until it stops. A lifetime later.

This is no longer a laughing matter. My sanity is at sake.

Also, John is convinced that the mouse is mocking him as it somehow climbs up on top of the fridge every night, and takes a piss on his passport. No, I do not know why he has not removed his passport. But every morning, another puddle of mouse wee. I have told him that most countries will now refuse him entry because he smells like a mouse toilet, but still he does not listen. He has requested that we buy a non-fatal trap so that once we catch the mouse, he can torture it by, you know, poking it. And stuff.

I am almost ready to admit defeat. I will probably do a special episode of girl.blog.etc featuring the various mouse traps we have used in an attempt to catch the little shit, because, yes, we have tried THAT MANY different ways.

He'll die of old age before we catch him. Or we will first.

I don't think mousey will be doing any more nighttime scratching.

No. He's not dead.

They put bright pink plastic bags in our letter box, which we were to fill with old clothes and useless crap and leave outside for charity. 'Ah HAH!' I thought. 'Now I can get rid of those old Indian drums!'

Yes, I have old Indian drums. And only one drumstick, for some fricking reason. I received them as a birthday gift when I was convinced that my life would only be complete if I had a pair of Indian drums.

I have played them, oh, about twice since then.

I reached behind the couch and pulled them out, and something flew out with them. It hit me in the chin and then fell on the floor.

THE MOUSE! THE EFFING MOUSE!

The little son of a bitch tried to take my head off. I squealed like a girl and John came running in.

Me: [breathlessly] M-m-m... mouse.
John: Hmm.
Me: MOUSE!
John: Is this your overactive imagination again?

Ooh. John is asking for it. Since the mouse traps are virtually useless for mouse-catching, I may leave them in the bedroom doorway ready for John's early morning toes.

Mousey had been building a nest inside my bloody Indian drums. They're pretty solid, so he hadn't done much except shit and piss all over them. That same solid surface, combined with the hollow interior, meant that the scratching was being echoed around the house Every Fricking Night and driving me utterly bananas. No more! Hurrah!

We thought we had DangerMouse cornered when he ran out from under the couch, but after removing every item from the lounge room, we discovered that he had disappeared, not entirely unlike David Copperfield.

And I cannot help but think that maybe the charity people will not want my drums anymore.

(I promise I will stop blogging about the mouse as soon as it stops LAUNCHING ITSELF AT MY HEAD.)

Ratty McRatFace, Little Mousey Bastard, Scummy Rodent Shit - whatever your preference - has had a veritable FEAST at our expense. The little punk is eating us out of house and home. In the last day and a half, he has eaten:

• Bacon rind.
• Buttered toast.
• The entire contents of the last slice of chicken and vegetable pie.
• Cottage pie.
• Apricot jam.
• Large chunks of bread.
• Vodka-soaked bread, in the hope that the little shit is a Cadbury and will get tipsy and DIE.

All off his favourite serving plate: a supposedly very sensitive trap designed to trigger as soon as mousey even looks in its direction.

John, who is getting all inventive, is going to find a piece of cork - so that he can't pull it off the trap, see (a skill at which he EXCELS) - and cover it in pate, to see if mousey's delicate tastes can tempt him to his Snappy death.

Yes, we have resolved to send him to Mouse Heaven. You cannot shit on my clothes and expect to get away with it. This rule applies not only to evil mouses, but to everyone. I think it is a reasonable rule. I do not use your clothes as toilet paper, and I expect the same courtesy in return. If we all did our business on eachother's clothes, where would we be?

And, I know, I know: the miraculous peanut butter. We are completely abnormal in that we do not have peanut butter in our house. Not a bit. I am a jammer; not a peanut butterer. And I am a tight cow who is going to refrain from buying an entire jar of peanut butter with which to tempt a mouse until the very last minute.

If Shitty McMouseShit does his scratching business tonight and keeps waking me up again, THE LAST MINUTE IS NIGH.

Our other options:

• Poison. We bought some, in the form of tasty chocolate treats, and then read the packaging to discover that baiting must continue for TWO WEEKS. Two weeks! I cannot handle that little shite scratching and biting his way through the wall to build his festering nest of mouse babies and wee for two whole weeks. I am not a longsuffering Saint who loves mouses.
• I wonder if there is a Patron Saint of Mice? There's Saints for everything. The Patron Saint of Gardening, the Patron Saint of Taking a Wee, the Patron Saint of Shaving your Armpits. EVERYTHING.
• Taming mousey, and training him to do cool things like walk tightropes and make cups of tea. Hey, you never know.
• Continue to feed him food until he is so fat he cannot fit under the washing machine anymore and resigns himself to a life of waddling, and taking frequent breaks.
• Catch him, make him wear an eyepatch and refer to him as DangerMouse. DangerMouse! He's the greatest! He's fantastic!
  

Sigh.

This internet thing is completely distracting me from my trap-watching.

So. I casually strolled over to the washing machine, opened the lid, and was about to push a towel in on top of the large blanket thing already sitting in there when a little brown blur caught my eye.

A mouse! A mouse in my house! More interestingly, a mouse IN MY WASHING MACHINE!

He hopped into the little crevice bit above the tub and sat there with his tail sticking out. Then he was gone. I pulled out the blankets and saw mouse shit GALORE. Well, a week's worth at least, because I'm guessing he wasn't in there when I did the washing last week, unless he is AquaMouse.

I briefly wondered How The Hell a mouse could get into my washing machine, with its closed lid and much-taller-than-a-mouse sides, but it was quickly replaced by How The Hell do I get the little bastard OUT of my washing machine.

I do no favours for mouses. None of that Stuart Little shit for me. A mouse is a mouse and they shit, breed, and chew through things they shouldn't. I had one as a pet when I was a kid and the little bastard smelt bad, and bit me. NO FAVOURS.

I need to do my washing by tomorrow. If I do my washing, mousey will drown, or be crushed by the wobbling tub thing, or be burnt by the hot motor thing. And then I will have Dead Mouse in my washing machine forever more, which will be gross indeed. And Dead Mouse on my clothes.

(Morbid? Yes. Sorry.)

If I do not do my washing, then I will smell like pre-worn clothes, or have to wear clothes that I don't normally wear. And doing the latter will get me by for a week or two, but what happens then? I only have so many clothes. Fewer than the average girl, too, due to being crap at the whole girl thing.

I don't know what to do. Any suggestions?

Please note that the post following this one was actually typed up yesterday, but for some reason or a-fricking-nother, I could not post it. My internet connection has been entirely up the (Hilary) duff and I AM ANNOYED.

But, no matter. I have looked into obtaining a more stable connection but it turns out that I HATE TELSTRA. You have my landline and my mobile phone, yet you're completely unflexible and unwilling to negotiate. I should not expect so much from your staff members, because I know you only give them three minutes of on-the-fly training and allow them to shrug in response to queries more complex than "have I reached Telstra?"

(If you work for Telstra and you are competent and able, then my apologies, but I have most definitely never spoken to you.)

I was so incredibly bored yesterday (when I was at home with sickness and no internet), that I drew this smiley face in Paint, using only my feet.



Yes, I was that bored.

John: [examining the picture] Do you ever look at pictures and start to see other things? Like when you look at clouds?
Me: No.

A moment passes.

Me: A man bungee jumping off a bridge.

Another moment.

John: OH MY GOD. I see it.

What can you see?

I have an internet connection like the proverbial whore's drawers so have been forced to travel to the nearest uber-trendy cafe, which has $5 coffees, customers wearing outfits entirely composed of black, experimental instrumental somethingelsemental background music, and, most importantly of all, free wireless access for all patrons. The reason I am able to do this on a weekday is due to the sudden wrenching gut pain I experienced a whole fifteen minutes before I was due to leave for work, making me have a big whinge and call in sick.

So hi! My shifts this week are the shittiest shifts in all the land, so I figured I'd make use of this time, even if my guts are still all twisty and wrenchy. I may need to excuse myself momentarily to groan and whine. I am not entirely sure what has caused it, but it may be the risotto that John made last night. At least that's what I'm telling John, so that he is racked with guilt and keeps bringing me cups of tea.

On the subject of Superman Returns: PHWOAARRRRRR! I sang along loudly with the theme music (which I had forgotten entirely until I heard it again) and sneered at the kids who were too young to remember Christopher Reeve in lycra. To show that Superman is now modern and post-millennium, somebody very nearly says 'shit' and it is implied that Superman and Lois have SHAGGED. Can you imagine shagging Superman? It raises all sorts of interesting questions and theories.

I was gaily walking home from work last Friday afternoon and slipped a little bit on some loose twigs and leaves. The whole thing felt a little bit odd and left me a little askew so I looked down at my shoe and realised that I didn't actually have a heel anymore. And because my heels were about three inches high, I walked all the way home like I had one leg shorter than the other. All I need to do now is grow a hunchback and take up residence in the nearest bell tower.

But! Having a snapped shoe (and not being inclined to take it to the cobbler bloke to be repaired, because they were dodgy shoes that had been on their last legs (HA!) for quite a while) meant that I could then justify going out to buy Brand-New shoes. So I went out and looked at all the shoes on sale due to the end of financial year and bought a pair that WEREN'T ON SALE and COST A LOT. But oh. Oh. They are hot.

(Then I spent money on clothes that WERE on sale, and two work shirts and a pair of work pants for under $100 is a DEALANDAHALF, I say. So, um, it's ok. And, um, I put it on my credit card anyway. So it's like I haven't really spent anything at all. Cough.)

Also! Not having to pay gym fees this month means I am something like $76 richer, as well. (Still no news on that, by the way. I picked up their terms and conditions leaflet on the weekend and everything the cow said is written in there, so I've got to examine my options. I'm thinking of a) murder, or b) faking my own death.)

And! On the subject of increasing wealth, I sold that bloody jersey on ebay, for all of $61. Somebody got the fricking deal of the century on that one. They e-mailed me to say they had deposited the money, and even though it hasn't shown up in my account yet I have express posted it to them, because, let's face it, if I don't get rid of the son of a bitch it's going to rot at the back of my wardrobe for the rest of my life.

I now LOVE ebay. Once I discovered the e-mail saying that I'd sold the jersey (which came as a shock in itself, because I had actually completely forgotten that I'd put it up for auction), I rolled about rapturous and in fits of ecstasy. Best. Feeling. Ever. I then ran around the house, trying to find other things to sell but John tells me that buyers apparently would not appreciate my old jeans, my pet cockatiel, or my copy of How I Live Now (in which a girl has sex with her cousin quite a lot, and I don't know about you, but that doesn't sit quite right with me. No, I don't care if it is WWIII. Do not let your blood relatives put their parts anywhere near your parts.).

Wa-hay. I'm a bit off track. I know I'm a bit behind the times with this new-found love of ebay, but I always have been a bit slow with the trends. I'm still trying to work out what a myspace is.

There was also: the acquisition of a new item of furniture, the purchase of a new bag of bird seed, and the replenishing of our supply of laundry detergent. DOES THE EXCITEMENT EVER STOP?!

No. No it doesn't.