Only a short one after our epic first world problems. Bravo, blogosphère. We are SO unlucky.
Firstly, Mr Houser, my adoptive gay son, has set one of my very favourite keyword searches to beautiful, beautiful montage. I hope it will be the first of a series. I am particularly looking forward to 'tentacle debauchery' or 'albino clawed toad and how to cure bloating'. Over to you, Tom.
Secondly, it is the CFO's 40th birthday today. Probably his weirdest - worst? - ever. God only knows where we'll all be next year but the four of us are most unlikely to spend it together. Happy birthday CFO! Fingers and Lashes have decorated him a selection of garden pebbles. Well, decorated is a big word. Waved some glitter glue in the general direction. I made some shit brownies in an unconscious parallel with last year. It's all been very substandard. But then there is NO direction in the etiquette guides about how one deals with this kind of thing (apart from Mrs Trefusis, who would be the perfect modern Emily Post). We are fumbling our way around here. So he's watching Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall witter about gremolata and I'm scratching my entire epidermis off, compulsively, like a dog with fleas. Hugh has just said "extracting their horny beaks and pulling off their tentacles". That man is a sick puppy, isn't he? You really don't get that problem with Uncle Ben's Microwave Rice.
If anyone has a hideous birthday story to share, do let me have it. Or, indeed, an inspiring story about winning Nobel prizes and the like after 40. Or even just tortoise photos. We'll take whatever we can get, frankly.