And there was me thinking it was going to be traumatic...

So it seems I've discovered a way to stop all those vile and horrible feelings of inadequacy and self hatred when you're off out bikini shopping.

Just abandon all shame and take a bored and irritated 15 year old with you. Once you've decided you don't care what you look like because you'll be so far out of your usual comfort and time zone and the said 15 year old has had enough of shopping and grunts that "are you getting that one, then hurry up" in a Kevin fashion, then it's simple.

Voila - in my mind when I hit Venice Beach I should look something like the picture on the right. Ha. If I don't look down or in a mirror/window. Oh, who cares? It may have taken over 20 years to realise, but only me. And now I'm past caring so precisely no one cares. Also if I tell the Lovely Boyfriend that I look like a Bond Girl enough times, he'll start believing it. Or rather, he's so lovely he'll just give the right answer the first time.

And yes, that really is the bikini I came home with today. Now there's just the small problem of the holiday photos...

Ground Control to Animal Disco

The laptop says it's 00:53. I'm in bed with a magazine and two newspapers and the work for the week is done. Hurrah. I've just treated myself to episode four of Summer Heights High and the only reason I've been tempted to blog at this hour is so that a certain Scouse expat can wake up (hopefully without a tight throat...) and smell the coffee. Dollface is ready for battle again.

I caused murder at the Animal Disco when I admitted to buying the Daily Mail occasionally. Ha. I love a good fight. And now that I've learned to share links (yay) maybe we can spread a little...unhappiness?

So what have I been up to? Is anyone interested? I'm wondering whether my time spent blogging (or not) would be better served writing a play/novel/film. Hmm. My daughter turned 18. That was fantastic. My son wants a dog. That will be a no. And my new stainless steel worktops are beautiful and mean I will have to stay home forever (basically because I can't afford to do anything else now...) and learn to cook and polish them until my hands are raw. Wait now, that might be far too white, middle class ladies who lunch for a certain commenter at the Animal Disco. If that doesn't make sense, see the previous link and go to the I Love David post.

I'm sure I've been doing lots of other exciting things too. Oh yeah, today I had a traumatic experience involving a smear test and an incompetent nurse. Does that count and is it too much information. Like I care...