...don't match.

That's because I went to the hairdressers today, and had my barnet dyed ginger.

For a number of reasons:

1) I can sort of get away with it, because of the aforementioned natural tendency towards being sort of ashy blondey with a hint of gingery type of thing.

2) The number of grey hairs was multiplying at an alarming rate, and they kept standing up on top of my head and looking stupid.

3) I've had a crap couple of months and needed cheering up.

4) I felt like it.

Anyway, I am now £50 lighter and ginge and lovin it. It's fairly subtle though, and will fade faster than a speeding cortina (only a semi, not a permanent colour). I wanted it a bit more vibrant but my hairdresser is too much of a pro and wouldn't let me. Me, I quite like it when it's brazenly false...

And now I have a stomach bug, and I've been doubled over with crippling stomach cramps all night, feeling as sick as a dog and pooing for England, and I have the sorest arse in the world, and I am not a very happy bunny.

Just got back from a weekend (well 24 hrs) away by the seaside (and no, it wasn't a dirty one). The weather was pants. Driving home today and the posh thing in Mr Sixpence's car that shows you the temperature outdoors was saying 7.5 degrees. 7.5 degrees!!!!! It's nearly feckin JUNE!!!

Went out for a Thai meal last night and had to bite my lip and look out of the window at the conversation on the next table.

Him (looks like George Harrison circa 1969 after a bad night out): I quite fancy this. Chilli chicken. Can I 'ave it with chips?
Her (Waynetta Slob in a kaftan): Oooh I'm 'aving rump steak.
Sixpence (to herself): And you came to a Thai restaurant because...?
Him: Not goin for 'owt exotic then?
Sixpence (to herself): Yeah, because you're like, dead experimental...
Her: Well they've got them mussels on the menu. I quite like them.
Him: I bet if you ask they won't 'ave none in. It's not the kind of thing they 'ave, is it?
Sixpence (to herself): Well, if you're in a restaurant with mussels on the menu, actually the chances are...

I also managed to twist my ankle walking in foolish shoes (it's a bit of a disadvantage being a short arse AND apparently incapable of walking in heels). And now I have it propped up on cushions with frozen peas.

Time for a Sixpence Special Sunday Bath methinks. Yes, I know it's Monday. The Sixpence Sunday Bath (I do also have baths on other days of the week - but not the Special version. And no, tkk, it's not Special because it involves any improper activity with bathroom fixtures and fittings) is a Sixpence Ritual in which no one may intervene, unless it's to wash my back. It takes 2 hours (minimum) and it involves lots of scrubbing and buffing and slathering on potions. Plus, obviously, a lot of lounging about and enjoying myself.

Hey, what can I say? It takes effort to look this good!!!!!!!!!!

Well after getting into the final ten in a short story competition for the second year running I went to the prizegiving today and managed to get into the top 5 as a "runner up" this year (which I didn't last year) but still failed to win one of the 2 (HARD CASH) prizes. Still, at least I got to read my story out this year, which for a change was neither rude nor disturbing. Here's a wee extract for you - from smack in the middle, so you won't have a clue what's going on (but in a nutshell the story is called Guacamole and it's about someone coming to dinner and the narrator is relaying memories of this person while she makes fresh guacamole):

There is a fresh lime on the chopping board and I roll it into the centre of the board and pick up my knife with the black handle and I slice the lime in half and the two halves fall away green and perfect. I pick up one half and squeeze it over the avocado flesh until the lime is just pith and skin. I drop it back onto the chopping board and my fingers are sticky, my index finger stinging where the limejuice has got into a paper cut at the side of my nail. I put my finger in my mouth and my tongue twitches and waters with the taste of the juice.
Sandra was the worst kind of teenager, not snappy or dramatic or emotional, I wouldn’t have minded that, but bitchy and tarty and not all that bright. When I saw her in the corridors at school she’d say “That’s the kid I’m living with,” and her friends would stare at me, or she’d see me coming and grab their arms and they’d all walk off down the corridor, buttocks wobbling under their too-tight skirts, wavering unsteadily on their stiletto heels. Sandra had one pair of stilettos that were cerise pink with a fake diamante clasp on the toe and she bought some shoe paint and tried to paint them navy blue. First she got paint all over the diamante and then when she wore them the shoe paint flaked off after three days and you could see the cerise showing through on the heel. When I told Sandra she shrugged and said “So?”

There you go - an exclusive 'taster' just for my blog friends. Apart from going to the prizegiving I've done nowt today, except have a bath and wash my hair which has now gone fantastically big and curly. I dunno how this happened; I had straight hair once. Nobody ever told me your hair could go spontaneously curly when you hit 30. Even my own mother thinks it's a bit strange. It's not like I ever ate my feckin crusts.

Had a dream last night, which I take as a positive sign, since I've been too tired to dream for months - even though it wasn't a very nice dream. About me being in my car and feeling vulnerable and keeping locking the doors. There are many interpretations I can put on this dream - on the lockdown image and what I am trying to keep out. Or in. Telling me to be cautious or telling me I don't need to be so cautious? Who knows, eh...

Been trying to get some work done, for a change, as over the last few weeks I've been completely stumped. Somebody needs to take some willow to my backside, I fear. It all came to a head yesterday. Had to toss to decide what came first.

That's my cricket references exhausted. I'll have to read the rules of the feckin game before I can come up with any more.

Further to yesterday's blog, I have continued my research and discovered the following fascinating facts: (for more visit http://www.pontefractliquoricefestival.co.uk/index1.html )

1) It is highly likely that you eat or use Liquorice in one form or another every day of your life.

2) Liquorice is used by Brewers, in Stout, Porter and Beer to give it thickness and blackness.

3) During the Second World War women would lick the red Liquorice Comforts sweet and rub the red colouring onto their lip as a lipstick substitute.

4) Liquorice can be found in many skin care products.

5) A word of caution, Liquorice has wonderful qualities but excessive quantities could cause water retention, hypertension and raise the blood pressure, and above all it is a Laxative. “As with all good things, everything in moderation.”

6) You can buy a compact yet comprehensive book, titled "Liquorice", written by Briony Hudson & Richard Van Reil, on the history of Liquorice and Pontefract's association with it. Richard is the Curator of Pontefract Museum. It is said, "What he doesn't know about Pontefract's long and rich history probably isn't worth knowing". (Oh, please stop now… I can’t take any more!!!!!!!!! But if you’re really keen: The book can be obtained from Pontefract Museum price £3.99, Tel; 01977 722741.)

Was clearing out a load of emails today, including some old editions of the regular "Arts Jobs" bulletins that I receive, and came across this ad from one of my favourite organisations - the Pontefract Liquorice Trust!

Friends may remember that I was so delighted by a job advertisement placed by the Trust last year that I seriously considered applying under the name of S.Herbert, with the opening statement "I haven't got much experience, but I've heard that you take allsorts".

I'm afraid that you have missed the deadline to apply for the job opportunity below, but I'd be intrigued if anyone can shed any light upon the following:

1) What, precisely, is a "Table Top Craft Workshop"? (I particularly like the phrase 'drop in table top craft workshops' which conjures up all kinds of interesting images).

2) How any proposal might feasibly encompass their requirements: "workshops which encourage participation in traditional crafts, explore heritage themes and make use of liquorice"

Well - I've now been to the Pontefract Liquorice Festival website and I note that the festival will also include the following:
- New and traditional liquorice foods, drinks, herbal and medicinal remedies
- Liquorice in Medicine through the ages [Library exhibition]
- Liquorice Talks [Library] (my particular favourite. I wonder what it says?)
- Liquorice Shoes [Pontefract Museum] (Unpleasant foot odours? Your problems solved. Why not stink of liquorice instead?)

Anyway. Here's the ad.

Subject: Table Top Craft workshops sought for Pontefract Liquorice Festival
From: "Bev Adams"
Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2006 16:15:28 +0100

Table Top Craft Workshops Sought For Pontefract Liquorice Festival

Arts & Craft workers required to run drop in table top craft workshops
at Pontefract Liquorice Festival on Sat 15 and Sun 16 July between the
hours of 11am and 5pm. Proposals for workshops which encourage
participation in traditional crafts, explore heritage themes and/or make
use of liquorice are particularly sought.

The festival is extremely busy, so 2 artists working together to run
each workshop is essential.

Please send proposals, by 9 May 2006, to Bev Adams, Liquorice Festival
Project Manager, c/o Faceless, Wakefield ArtsMill, Bridge Street, Wakefield, WF1 5JR

Tomorrow I'm having my eyelashes tinted for the last time before my beauty therapist goes on maternity leave!!!!!!!!!!! Honestly. It shouldn't be allowed. What am I going to do now????

Some might call me vain - but I can exclusively reveal that there is just cause for this apparent extravagance:

I have gingery blonde eyelashes, and eyelash tinting has been nothing less than a revelation in my personal grooming!!!!!!!!!!!!

It lasts six weeks. Lovely black eyelashes and no mascara required.

Chap I used to know once mocked me for it, and I was forced to own the reason.

Sixpence: So what would you do if you had ginger eyelashes?

Chap I used to know: Kill myself, probably.

Which kind of proves my point.

(Thought for the day, boys: she massages my back too. And she's very good at it...)

...be arsed.

i got nothin to blog about
so i'll just tell you my day
went to exercise class this morning
got there late
i'm compulsively late everywhere
but i try not to be too late to my exercise class
in case i pull something
(ooh er)
(i recently had a case of strained buttocks
which was most unexpected)
anyway after the class
some enjoyable time out
in my honda civic
with good music blaring /
nourishment for the soul
i drove round to see my friend Uncle Mo
who has a lovely scottish voice
that makes all the girls go wobbly
and took him his white bowl back
that he left here after we had a barbecue in a thunderstorm
the other week
(he brought a curried bean salad
yum)
anyway me and mo talked
about life death & the universe
and this: http://www.worldjumpday.org/
he made me a cup of decaff
i looked at his garden
he lent me a dvd of 'like water for chocolate'
(not heard of it)
mo is lovely
no it's not a shaggin thing
he's just dead nice
anyway no curried beans were forthcoming
and mo had to go to a meeting
so i drove home
stopped at the co-op
en route
FECKIN STARVIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
bought myself some potato waffles
& eggs
we don't normally get eggs in our house
'cos of the vegan thing
but i had an egg urge (not in the juzzzy's dream sense either)
got home & made ham egg & waffles
and ate it that fast
it's gonna be repeating on me all night
i had to stop at the docs too
and pick up some eczema cream
and post my best mate's wedding anniversary card (4 yrs)
and a card to T who i was at primary school with
(who was the first bloke i ever snogged
when i was 8!!!!!!!!!)
and whose birthday i missed a month ago
when i was havin a tough time
(my 5th round of ivf went wrong)
anyway that was then
and now i'm blogging
but soon i gotta get ready
to go out tonight
not partying WORKING!!!!!!!!!
yes WORKING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
i gotta put proper professional clothes on and everything
(doesn't happen often
but as i told a friend today
no matter how smart the clothes i put on
the hair still gives me away)
anyway i gotta evaluate a creative writing workshop tonight
it's gonna be fun
lots of strangers
writing in a museum
and me taking photos of them doing it
(writing!!!!!!!!)
pub afterwards methinks
with the friendly ones
it's the last evening workshop session tonight
so we'll be celebrating
and i'll drink to that

...why sixpence?

This is me holding the original Sixpence on our front doorstep in 1982 (aged eleven). (Yes - I'm a cat person. Sorry, Juzzzy...)

The sixpence thing came about when I had a proper (but sadly very boring) job working in the distribution of lottery funds to good causes, and my colleagues and I spent an afternoon working out the "porn name" of everybody in the office.

(Your porn name = the name of your first pet + your mother's maiden name.)

My friends had really cool ones, like 'Muffin Paige' and 'Tiger Bailey'. Whereas mine (Sixpence ------) had them rolling in the aisles.

Sadly I am unable to impart my mother's maiden name here, as it's far too unique and hilarious. So you'll just have to take my word for it.

Go on then, tell us yours...

PS. Reports that the sixpence thing came about because 6p was what my husband paid for me on bighairedharlotbrides.com are, I regret to announce, purely fictitious...

The in laws are coming for the weekend today.

This isn't necessarily a bad thing, because my in laws are fine. It just means:

1) I have to get out of bed now and tidy the house. The pile of washing that will no longer fit in the laundry basket is sort of creeping across the bedroom floor.

2) That I put straightening balm in my hair yesterday, because my mother in law likes tidy hair. (!!! I'm the perfect daughter in law...)

3) That I have to book dinner at a pub somewhere this evening, because I can't be arsed to cook.

4) That I might not get much blogging time.

*sigh* So there it is.

See you soon.

This is ‘The Crapper’:

The Crapper is essentially a purpose built, unique, back-to-nature bathroom facility, laden with rustic charm.

(aka a plank above a pit)

It is in the garden of my brother’s house in a rural part of Denmark, where it was created for his 40th birthday last year, when the garden was full of pissed people sleeping in tents.

It was supposed to be knocked down afterwards, but my brother has sort of got attached to it.

Every morning he heads out there with a cup of coffee and a good book for 20 minutes. In all weathers.

He loves it.

Anyway.

I rang my brother yesterday and had a really good chat with him. The best chat we’ve had for ages.

We talked about writing, because my brother is writing a children’s book about the Pixies.

(Now I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not talking about Frank Black, and the lyric ‘uriah hit the crapper’ is pure coincidence here.)

The Pixies are a big thing in Denmark.

In the run up to Christmas, you have to leave special porridge in the attic for the Pixies. If you don’t, they play tricks on you, like putting rice in your wellies. And one year, my nieces and nephew woke up to find their bikes hanging from the trees outside.

If you remember to leave the porridge then you get presents every day in December. And sometimes, the Pixies leave little hats and clogs behind. That’s how you know they’re real.

Anyway. My brother is writing this book. I can’t read it, because it’s in Danish.

So we talked about writing, and that was good.

Then my brother says, “Oh the cat’s just come in.”

And I say, “Where are you?”

My brother says, “I’m on the Crapper.”

Ignoring my stunned silence he continues, “I’ve got the door open and I can see the woods. It’s great.”

So I say, “Well, I think I’ll go now. Have a pleasant dump. Firm, but not too firm.”

“Thannnkkkkkssssss,” he says.

And I swear I can hear him straining.

Was right in the middle of posting a top notch blog this morning when it all went down... (...pause for you boys to make relevant wisecracks...) And I'm not going to do it again, because I can't be arsed. And I've actually been WORKING this afternoon (well I say 'working'. I had to evaluate a poetry workshop. Which meant joining in myself. So I've been writing poems, but that honestly is work for me...) So, exhausted by my efforts, my creative juices drained, I am now eating some cheese on a ryvita (since Mr Sixpence, who is Head Chef in our house, is late home. Can't get the staff these days).

I did have some good news though. I've been shortlisted in a short story competition. Hooray! Got shortlisted in same one last year, but didn't win anything..... this year's entry is short on plot but high on sensual culinary detail and footwear........ so who knows??

The winning entries are being announced at an event in couple of weeks' time. Last year I turned up with a posse of supporters from all over the globe, and didn't win a thing..... So this year do I:

a) Send my apologies. I could always send one of those recorded messages in case I win, like at the Oscars.

b) Turn up in disguise, and whip it off... (easy now...) if my name is called.
(NB. Not that viable: the hair gives it away every time).

c) Go alone. Have no one to wipe away tears when I lose. No one to buy me a drink when I win. Sob!!

d) Bring a posse, again, and have to apologise to them, again, for dragging them out, again, when they have better things to do, again.

Any advice welcomed...

Today’s the second anniversary of what would have been my baby’s due date, if it had survived.

You’ll have to excuse my being sad and making a big thing of this, but despite the miracles of modern medicine it seems unlikely that I’ll get the chance to have any more. So I do.

May 17

you are nameless
except in my head

you are a small thing
which didn’t grow

you are what
they took away from me
on a Wednesday

you are a blank space
in my diary

a
non
birthday

an absence
in the darkest heart
of me

After talking to a friend about birthday milestones I went on a nostalgia search for the photo of me on my 16th birthday – which I’m not posting here, due to the embarrassingly visible poster of Jason Connery on my bedroom door (oh shit, I admitted it) and my red, puffy face, because my first boyfriend had just dumped me.

Yes, that’s right. He dumped me on my sixteenth birthday.

He didn’t even do it himself. He got his best mate to phone up and tell me I was chucked.

You heard me. His best mate!

Anyway. That’s beside the point. The point is that while looking for the photo I came across this one, taken on holiday in Spain in 1988, when I was 17, and it made me a bit nostalgic.

Not for the sun, or the mountains, or this pool outside my friend’s villa (although I have to say the pool does bring back a lot of memories!!!)

Not for being 17.

Not for the lads from the villa down the road who called us (the four girls on the holiday) “The SKs” (sex kittens, bien sur).

Not for my gymnastic ability in being able to dive like this, which meant I once got a third prize in the school swimming gala, even though I can’t actually swim that well.

No. None of the above.

It made me nostalgic for my arse.

I wish to Christ it still looked like that!!

I think this one’s probably gonna kill morelearning (who I perceive to be something of a footie fan), but I gotta tell it. I spent Easter a few weeks ago being reminded of it by my Dear Family, who have stored it for posterity among their Top 5 anecdotes of Sixpence Being A Dozy F**kwit, to be aired repeatedly at all future family gatherings, amidst great hilarity…

Anyway. It’s last Christmas, and Family Sixpence are sitting around the fire playing The Rizla Game.

Now, before you get any funny ideas about Family Sixpence, the Rizla Game is where you write the name of a famous person or character (real or fictional, human or otherwise) on a Rizla paper, stick it on the forehead of the person next to you, and then everyone has to guess who they are by taking it in turns to ask questions which can only be answered with “Yes” or “No”.

So my mum’s Benny Hill, my dad’s Einstein, my sister in law’s Gollum, and we’re all doing splendidly.

Except me.

Everyone’s guessed who they are, and I’m still stuck. I’ve established that I’m male, alive, a real person, not white, famous, Brazilian, a footballer, and oh yeah, I don’t play professionally any more.

Now at this point any ‘normal’ person, especially those who have attained the grand age of 34, and have a reasonable degree of education and intelligence, would know what is written on their Rizla.

But this is the krazeee world of Sixpence, and I genuinely don’t know.

So the conversation goes something like this:

Sixpence: Look guys, I really don’t think I know who this person is.

Family Sixpence: Sixpence, you do too. They are way famous.

Sixpence: No, honestly. I don’t think I do.

Family Sixpence: Get away, you ignorant f**kwit [not their exact words, but you get the gist]. You so have to know who this is.

Sixpence: Gimme some clues.

Family Sixpence: His name has four letters.

Sixpence: [just sits there looking nonplussed with Rizla stuck to forehead]

Family Sixpence: And it begins with P.

Sixpence: Pete???????????

So. I think I can safely say I’m never gonna live this one down.

(Sorry, morelearning…)

Talking to timekillingkid about pierced noses reminded me of Pete story no.1, which I hereby faithfully impart. (tkk, just for clarity, this happened after the LSD incident with Pete’s housemate...)

You know those drunken moments when it’s the end of the night, you haven’t pulled, and you end up giving your phone number to some random bloke wearing a bandana……….. or was that just me?????

The next day:

Phone: Ring, Ring

Sixpence: Hello?

Bandana Man: Is Sixpence there, please?

Sixpence: Er……. Dunno, I’ll just find out.

Sixpence: (holding phone at arms length) Fuckety fuck, I really did give my phone number to a man wearing a bandana last night…

Sixpence: No, sorry. She’s not here.

Bandana Man: That’s you isn’t it Sixpence?

Sixpence: Sorry what? Er wrong bandana… I mean number…

Anyway. That’s not Pete story no.1. The point was that in a similarly drunken moment I was talking to a bloke I knew called Pete, who was a genuinely nice chap who I did actually like a lot, just not in a shagging capacity, and invited him to come around the next day, and promptly forgot all about it.

So, imagine my surprise. The next day I’m chatting to my housemate in our drawing room when the back gate opens and Pete wheels in his pushbike.

At this point I fall to my knees and (NO! not that) beg, beg my housemate, who’s about to leave to visit her parents, not to go anywhere and not to leave me alone with nice-but-unshaggable Pete.

Pete comes in, and we chat. And chat, and chat. My housemate’s looking pointedly at her watch and hovering in the doorway, and I can’t get him to leave.

Eventually, after a couple of hours, I give in and offer him a cup of tea, which I’ve so far refrained from doing in the hope of getting him to leave.

He accepts, and I make him a cup of tea.

Only I forget to boil the kettle.

No honestly, I genuinely forgot.

I give Pete a cup of stone cold tea.

He leaves.

Not me.

Six and half hours sleep last night. Unbroken.

Bloody fantastic.

Now, I'm not advocating prescription medication as an ongoing solution. I'm just saying, for me personally, on this particular occasion: bloody, bloody fantastic.

That's all.

Me (pallid skin with slight grey tinge, visibly trembling, unwashed and unbrushed, banging on surgery door at first light): for chrissake help me, i need SLEEP!

Doctor: and how long has this been going on young strump

Me: (snivelling) about nine f**king years!

Doctor: hmmmm. well it would be irresponsible of me not to suggest non-pharmaceutical approaches, since you're clearly unhinged. you could see our practice therapist?

Me: f**k that and gimme the drugs!!!

Doctor: please put me down, i'm scared. your prescription will be waiting for you in the dispensary next door.

5 mins later

Lady in dispensary: these might make you a little drowsy...

Me: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Apologies to timekillingkid, on whose blog I first created this yesterday, but I'm just so excited about having invented a new word, and wanted to spread it about a bit more (and lets face it, it wouldn't be the first time....)

VERB: TO STRUMP = TO PUT IT ABOUT A BIT; TO FLASH ONE'S ASSETS; TO TART AROUND; TO BE GENERALLY A BIT FILTHY AND RUDE.

COPYRIGHT MS SIXPENCE 2006

Please use it in your daily conversation at least six times today.

Or you could always write to Susie Dent and beg her to include it in the next Oxford English Dictionary. She has the power. As well as many other delightful assets.

Here are some sample sentences to get you going:

- Put it away, you dirty strumping pervert.
- Shall we go out for a strump later?
- She strumped saucily into the room.

Any more?

I always sneeze FIVE times. Never once.

My nan used to say "once a wish, twice a kiss, three times a letter" when someone sneezed. She never mentioned five times. So does that mean I get a kiss and a letter, or what?

There are many bodily reflexes which are welcome in multiple form, but sneezing is not necessarily one of these.

And no, I don't get hayfever, I'm just a multiple sneezer.

So once again I ask... is this just me??

1) When I clean my teeth it makes my nose run.

2) When I stick a cotton bud in my ear (yes I know I KNOW you're not supposed to) it makes me cough.

3) Whenever I describe these bodily reactions to others they look at me as though I'm completely mad.

4) Please can someone tell me I'm not alone.

5) Thanks.

Slept for SEVEN HOURS last night. SEVEN HOURS! First time in MONTHS. And then drifted in and out of sleep for ANOTHER FOUR HOURS. I would like to say I feel like a new woman (cue 'what's wrong with the old one', etc.) but in fact I feel wobbly and confused. Brain doesn't know what's hit it.

Went round a mate's for home made pizza last night, nice balmy evening here in the Shires (not Hobbiton) so we all sat round the chiminea. And here is where I get very confused about the nature of the male psyche, with which I require your assistance.

A conversation begins about flour being extremely flammable. There follows a full thirty minutes of boys dropping bits of pizza crust in the top of the chiminea and then excitedly crouching down to watch the effect on the flames below.

Can anyone explain this to me? Is it a caveman thing? "Man make fire"??????

Dragged meself to exercise class. Not been fer bloody ages. It's blinkin hot tonight and I need to get some decent exercise gear instead of slaggy leggings and ex groupie t shirts from my husband's indie pop star days.

I've never been in a gym in my life. My exercise class is a sedate affair full of old ladies. Hard to explain... along the same lines as Pilates but designed for Laydees to help them maintain a Trim and Elegant Posture. It's run by a fantastic organisation called "The Fitness League" (formerly 'The Women's League of Health and Beauty'). I think I'm the youngest there. I look at all the old gals who've been going for 50 years and can still kick their legs up in the air and I think bugger me, if that's what it's done for them, I'm stickin with it.

I was gonna train to be a League teacher at one stage but I was too busy getting married at the time and now I dunno if they'll have me 'cos I buggered up me leg in a shed roof incident and now one of me ankles don't work proper.

One of the old ladies says to me "Oooh you look trim, have you lost weight" (but unfortunately not loud enough for my mother to hear 120 miles away). I haven't been for weeks and they all pat me on the arm and say things like "oh it's nice to have you back" and "we like it when the young ones come along".

There's one other bird my age or thereabouts and I notice that she has a disturbingly attractive arse. Slight cause for concern as I normally reserve any sapphic adulation for Susie Dent in Dictionary Corner. Perhaps I just need a good frisking.

Then I come home and eat chocolate, because I've just exercised and I deserve it, and my cat (who turns into a crazed junkie when she smells dark chocolate) has a cat orgasm and won't leave me alone. I've got chocolate crumbs down the groupie t shirt and she keeps climbing on me chest and sniffing it.

Mr Sixpence says stop blogging it's time for bed and I know I ought to cos me eyes are closing but but what?

Arrive for a meeting with a client the other day, sit down next to him and nonchalantly flip open my laptop to resume work on the funding application I'm preparing for him, and what should appear on the screen but MSN Messenger, with my username 'FILTH' in big letters and my user picture (not me, btw):

There goes my professional reputation. Again.