I have eaten and drunk far too much this week and my stomach looks like a giant failed pancake. I have a new snake oil cellulite cream I am half-heartedly rubbing on my thighs without any belief it will make any difference (I got confused and ended up rubbing athlete's foot cream on yesterday).
F keeps pinching my tights between his thumb and forefinger then letting go and admiring the clouds of dead skin that float up, which in combination with the above makes me feel quite the femme fatale.
The very particular pain of those holes in the toes of your tights when your big toe gets caught in the hole, or in my case tonight BOTH my big toes, cutting off circulation painfully, ow, ow ow.
I am not rich enough to take part in the anthropomorphic guinea pig taxidermy workshop (though one day I might be able to run to a mouse).
An advert for a remedy for "ejaculation précoce" just came on whilst F and I were watching Masterchef and that is not a conversation I am ready to have with him.
Delicious (work) lunch of crespelle with spinach and walnut pesto. So good.
French Masterchef tonight includes Camargue horses (not to eat) and angry balding meilleur ouvrier de France Frédéric Anton is furiously bollocking everyone, which is just how I like it.
I'm sure there must be more but I have been lying on the sofa for 20 minutes trying to think of things, and I think that time might be better spent in bed.
This has been the scene in the garden for about three weeks now, following yet another "experiment".
No one could claim I do not suffer for science.