A mad March marriage...

I very recently got chastised by Mrs Not-So-Newlywed for yet again neglecting my blog. I admit it, I have been vair naughty. But in my defence, I have had an extremely busy few weeks and should not be held entirely accountable for my absenteeism. So there.

Sooooo March was a mad one, eh! More specifically, the first three weeks of March, which could only be described as the most action-packed, blissful, exciting, emotional and drama-tastic nineteen days since I don't know when;  a tornado of excitement involving several thousand units of alcohol, a barrel of laughs, tears, false lashes and tan, a wedding and a trip to Marrakech (more on that later), which is almost a criminal amount of fun to be having in the first quarter of a calendar. We also had two very special guests come to stay with us who had travelled all the way from sunny Melbourne: Chopper and FauxFirecrotch, two Aussie friends that lived in Edinburgh a few years back and had played a huge role in The Scotsman's social circle in those obviously dark pre-DG days, so the news of their coming over for the wedding was highly exciting.

A surprisingly accurate interpretation of The Dolmio's.

The two bright-eyed bushy-tailed kids getting
hitched are two very-long-term friends of TS;
Mr Dolmio has been his best friend since primary school (bless!) and the two of them had played football and smoked dubious cigarettes and partied together all the way through the education system right up until graduation. Mrs Dolmio went to their university and has been on the scene for over a decade, so it was really special to see such close friends of his swap rings and promise to love each other for ever and ever. Although I am still a fairly recent addition to the crew, I have had many many debaucherous evenings with both of them and couldn't wait to be part of their Big Fat Wedding Day.

Now it's no secret that I love a wedding. I love everything about it; I love the getting your hair and nails did, picking out your outfit for the day, the endless agonising over which shoes and jewellery and fascinator to perfectly complement your ensemble. And then the inevitable eye-dabbing as I get all emotional watching the couple say their vows. I even love that awkward fannying-about session that happens inbetween the ceremony and the meal, while the photographer works his magic and the bar is hit with a vengeance. But my most favouritest part of a wedding? The speeches. Yep, I love 'em. I honestly cannot understand why some people begrudge hearing insights and anecdotes from the people who know the bride and groom best, seeing the father of the bride get all choked up talking about his little girl, hearing occasion-appropriate risque banter from the best man and all the clinking and 'cheers'-ing inbetween each one. I am usually that person who is dangling off their chair hanging on every word with wine-induced glistening eyes and a big dopey smile on my face, loving every second of it and laughing a little bit too loud at the jokes. Ahhh yes, speeches are awesome. At the wedding of the Dolmios, the speeches were extra special, for TS was one of the best men and had to write a speech of his very own. It was already the first time I was ever going to have seen him in a kilt, which in itself had me coming out in hives from all the suppressed swooning, but add a speech into the mix? Let's just say I asked his mum to bring smelling salts along just incase it all got a little bit too much.

All in all the wedding was fantastic, the bride looked beautiful, the groom was very handsome in his kilt, much drinking and robot-dancing later the day was ended with a bang as the entire reception got up on their feet to the smooth grooves of House of Pain's 'Jump Around' and saw the newlyweds off to their bed in style. The next day we didn't have much time to recover from the excitement and resulting hangover, as we had to drag our sorry asses out of bed and get packed for a 3am start the next day to catch a morning flight, for we were Morocco-bound and ready for a week in the sun and souks...

Merry Xmas/Happy New Year/Bon Anniversaire

2012 is here! Technically it's been here for over a month now, but it's taken me this long to get used to that.

Did anyone else secretly get an ominous feeling as they welcomed in their new year? I certainly did, but only because the part of my brain which is susceptible to all the hype about Mayan calendars and Doomsday theories and Jake Gyllenhaal movies was having a field day. But it's all nonsense of course. At least it better be, if the world ends before I get a chance to wear a wedding dress, visit Tokyo or pick out a kitchen from Ikea I'll be very upset.

So what has been happening over the past few months? I had a shlovely Christmas at home, I only managed four days this year instead of the usual couple of weeks I normally get, but it was fine as I still managed to get spoilt rotten, consume many thousands of calories and spend some quality time with my lovely family. I was a very lucky girl and managed to shuffle my travel arrangements so I got to have an overnight stay with the Scotsman and his folks, which definitely helped to make up for us having to spend the holidays apart. After an evening of craic I was off on my way to Norn Iron on what was the possible the roughest, most puketastic ferry crossing I've ever been on. There was literally a person on either side of me boking into little paper bags, which is not the most pleasant seating arrangement for a three hour journey. Not having the strongest of stomachs when it comes to these situations, I doused my scarf in perfume, wrapped it round my head, shut my eyes tight and went to my happy place until my feet were on the dry land of home.

Xmas was fab, I managed a few jars down the pub catching up with my chums back home but spent most time at home, just vegging out with Quality Street and turkey and playing with our mad shih tzu. Before long I was back in the Burgh, ready for my first ever Hogmanay! Twas exciting stuff indeed, and seeing in the new year with my man felt so so good. The anniversary of our first date is next week, I can barely believe it! This is going to be our year, there are strange and exciting things coming in our near future and I just can't wait to see where we end up next.

Now I couldn't finish a catch-up entry without mentioning my birthday, could I! This year, I had a TOWIE night, and it was facking class. The girls all got dressed up to the max to the sweet sounds of Rihanna, downing fishbowls of cocktails in the flat and left for a local dancefloor covered in several layers of Sunshimmer and fake lashes and short skirts and faux bling. My chum Smecky provided an instant vajazzle, which went onto my thigh as even I am not bold enough to show off a diamante-encrusted foof in the middle of a bar. The Scotsman got away with a layer of fake tan and escaped without the stick-on diamond stud earring I kept threatening him with, however it got lost in his January-white skin and didn't quite provide the TOWIE-orange I was hoping for. All in all an excellent and most drunken night was had by all.

So that's me all up to date, and ready to complete my new year's resolution and actually post something on here regularly and not just when the mood takes me. We shall see. I'll just have to continue on my merry path to mayhem so I have plenty to write about...

Spanx are a gal's best friend

It's official: winter is on its way and I am loving it. Perfect excuse for lazy evenings cosied up on the sofa with my man, watching rubbish on telly and flicking through the Boots gift guide, trying to find the best way to fully exploit the 3-for-2 offer. It also means thick tights and faux fur Fuggs (or fake Uggs to the label whores out there)are once again a perfectly acceptable daily wardrobe choice, not to mention novelty knitted hats complete with cutesy animal ears.

But my favourite thing about Wintumn has got to be the feeding. Oh, the feeding.

Gone are the summer salads bursting with vitamins and good intentions; my current diet consists of Anything Potato-Based That Can Be Cooked In The Oven. Cheese has slowly crept into my list of essential daily snacks, and all those lovely mugs of tea required to warm my little chilled bones require an accompanying biccie or five. I mean, it would be rude not to.
My brain tells me "you know you're going to regret this when you see photos of your chubster chops all over Facebook post-Xmas party season", but my body says "see them spuds and gravy? Get them in ma bellay STAT."

But it's not just the casseroles, the stews, the baked spuds dripping with Utterly Butterly: there's all that booze that comes with it. I struggle to contain my inner alcoholic at the best of times, but cold dark evenings are my drinking Kryptonite. Everyone knows Sauvignon Blanc perfectly compliments the delicate and complex flavours of a plate of cheesy chips.

My new dietary habits seem to be contagious; to my delight The Scotsman has rapidly moved from occasional wine drinker to fully-fledged "my teeth are itchy for a large glass of red" status, which is great because it makes my wine fetish look reasonable. I'm delighted to tell you his expanded palate has included a new tolerance for stinky cheeses; during a recent grocery shop a burst of inspiration at the memory of a freebie bottle of red plonk in our kitchen led to the purchase of a tub of Saint Agur and some cream crackers. In record time we were rubbing our bellies, chewing at our tannin-stained lips and generally feeling very pleased with ourselves.

And it's only the start of November. Looks like I'll be asking Santa for some lovely, belly-friendly maternity jeans then...(worth it).

What a difference a half-year makes

"Last post published 16th April".

I had to read it twice to make sure my laser-correction surgery hadn't suddenly undone itself. How on earth has it been six months since I last had a wee blether on this? And yet somehow, when I think of how much has happened since then, it's all too believable. Update urgently required, methinks!
Soooo, to condense half a year's worth of DG shenanigans into as short a paragraph as possible, I shall be removing all words deemed non-essential for your reading pleasure:
Emotional rollercoaster summer. Uni plans put on ice, leading to swift lifeplan adjustments. Currently employed in icecream parlour, wreaking havoc with my waistline, tooth enamel and blood sugar levels but fun way to pay the bills until Proper Job. Loved up beyond belief with The Scotsman (yay!), happier than a pig in muck. Co-habiting until further notice.

So now we're all up to date, I can get on with What's Happening Now.

It's that spooky, autumnal (my current favourite word), chilly-wind time of year again! Can't beat it with a big stick; shop aisles stuffed with orange and black tinsel, cardboard hanging decorations of witches and skeletons, fake vampire fangs and huge containers of pumpkins in the supermarkets. Although the pumpkin thing I'm not 100% sure about, being one of the old-school group who used to carve turnips in their youth. Good times.

I'm sure I won't need to go into much detail on why the week before Halloween would be so exciting, not at all. Or why the presence of several bags of sequins, fabric and rhinestones in my bedroom would be enough to keep my delirious happiness at peak levels. Not even the dried superglue on my fingertips can wipe the cheesy grin off my face; for it is Costume-Making Season, and I am in my element.

Ice cream not included.

I've spoken before about my love for fancy dress, and at the age of 26 the shiny appeal of Halloween still burns brightly as ever. This year I plan to attend a friend's bash doing my best impersonation of a Mrs K. Brand, or Katy Perry to the masses, and I CAN'T WAIT. Of course, I have a perfect picture in my head of my planned ensemble, whether my vision translates into actual reality remains to be seen. I am currently halfway through my costume, and now that my lovely chum Smecky has lent me her trusted glue gun for optimal gem-adhesion, nothing can stop me!

I did briefly try (in vain) to persuade The Scotsman that it would be quite a brilliant idea if he went as Russell Brand to my Katy; he was having none of it, and has instead settled on a tutu-clad Ace Ventura. So now I'm off for a visit to the fabric shop to purchase several metres of baby pink net for my boyfriend. There is just something so wrong about that sentence.

Lost in Translation

I've always had a not-so-secret appreciation for comedy accents. It's one of the few things I've been able to take away from my linguistics degree, apart from an understanding of the logistics of how speech sounds are conjured up in our gubs. Comes in handy when several previous part-time jobs have involved working closely with Speakers of Other Languages; one particular year spent slogging my ass off in a local Thai noodle bar included helping the chef with his English skills. I'm proud to say that Kunlawat no longer says 'suh-ponge' and 'suh-nowman', a skill which will clearly have a huge impact on his everyday quality of life.

Obviously my current dalliance with The Scotsman has opened up a new world of opportunity.

This week, we were chatting on the phone and he mentioned his boss had shuffled his job role about a bit, and that he would now be in charge of "proper A cars."

DG: "Proper-A cars?? Ooooh what are those, they sound class!!"

Scotsman: "....what?"

DG: "You're in charge of the proper-A cars section, what's a proper-A car?"

A few moments of silence pass...

Scotsman: "PROPERTY and cars, dumdum." Then he proceeded to tut several times.

I'm not going to lie; I was mildly gutted that it was just a case of miscommunication and that there was no secret elite car advertising section. So to equalise the disappointment, I got him to say 'curlywurly', and happiness was immediately restored.

You can always rely on rhotics to brighten your day :)

'A kiss is just a pleasant reminder that two heads are better than one.' - Anon

This month I have mostly been having lots of kisses with a new boy! This may not sound like much of a story, but I should fill you in with some context. After splitting from my Mr Big last Xmas, my 2010 consisted mainly of typical break-up mental anguish; a long running "will-we-or-won't-we-get-back-together" saga; a LOT of alcohol and several displays of inappropriate behaviour, including a summer spent stringing along The Artist and The Bouncer simultaneously. Not my proudest moments, but self destructive behaviour tends to be (dare I say it?) quite a lot of fun. Heck, at least I got a few amusing photo albums out of the experience.

Pat knows what she's talking about.

Anyhow, once I finished my little pity party I gave myself a little pep talk and told everyone who would listen that I was quite happy to fly solo for a while, thank you very much, and I would not be requiring the company of any males to come along and mess with my delicate little brain. So what do I do the first girly night out I have once I decide this? I somehow find myself a date. After a pretty standard DG display of peacocking, I turn around and lock eyes with The Scotsman, who appears to find my drunken body-popping skills deeply alluring. Two super-hot blind(ish) dates later, I officially have a Romeo: after months of psyching myself up for a solo Valentine's day crying into a bag of Minstrels in my jammies, I instead found myself cosied up in bed with a new man, watching a DVD and sipping chilled Pinot Grigio. Got to love life's little ironies. The Scotsman has strong arms, a lovely soft beard, eyes that laugh and an accent that makes my wibble wobble.... ahh yes, I am quite enamoured with my current crush.

I love how this relationship business plays out you know, it never ceases to amuse me. I am convinced that Jebus created the concept of love under the guise of procreation, whilst having a little laugh to himself knowing how much enjoyment He's going to get out of watching us all run around like idiots.  Trust me, I have had my fair share of long-term commitment, of future plans involving rings and babies and mortgages, of investing everything you have in another person just for it all to go to shit. You build up this beautiful and exciting tower of potential together, only for a door to slam shut somewhere, it all comes falling down around you and all that's left is two miserable people looking at each other, wondering what the hell just happened. Isn't it awful!! But the important thing to realise is that it's ALL OK. It doesn't matter how jaded someone could be, how badly they've been hurt in the past, how cynical they are about the concept of lurve; all it takes is to have a spark, a positive connection with a chance encounter, and it all goes straight out the window; you are reborn baby, and ready for action :)

Lord knows what will eventually happen with my Scotsman; it could all be over in a month, he could be the love of my life, we could end up having a few illegitimate children together and start a family folk group. Stranger things have happened, and I thrive on the delicious anticipation of waiting to see how it all pans out, not just for us, but for my life in general: it's a successful primetime soap and I'm the lead character. Drunken Grape Meets Scotsman is just this month's running storyline: my plan is to soak it all up as much as possible, before reality sets in and he realises that the seemingly laidback, fun-loving, straight-talking brunette he has been concentrating so much of his energy on is in fact just as batshit-crazy as the rest of the female population. *cue manic laughter...*

P-A-R-T-whY? 'Cause I gottaaa...!

Here is a lovely photo of me with two of my best chums.
You see we enjoyed the chocolate cake.

It's February! The greyness of January is over and we can make our official start to the New Year. I don't know about you guys but Jan is such a depressing month that my brain has reprogrammed itself to take it out of the equation. That's right kids, in my head, January doesn't really exist; the year ends on 31st December and starts again on the 1st Feb. January is reserved for grey skies, empty bank accounts, miserable faces and post-Xmas pot bellies. The one shining beacon of light in the whole month is my birthday, a day in which I crank up my diva setting to 11 and stamp around making demands like a six year old with too much sugar. I try to make amends for my irritating behaviour by throwing a kick-ass bash for my lovely social circle every year, in a desperate attempt to shake us all out of our 'Santa's gone for another year' slump.

I'm a big fan of themed parties, and am unashamed by that. I LOVE them; don't get me wrong, they are a heap of extra effort and expense to throw, and I usually have a minor breakdown at the 11th hour when some inevitable planning catastrophe occurs. My Mr Big was exceptionally skilled in the art of recognising the meltdown symptoms, and was ready with tea, calming words and a vodka chaser to settle me down again, clutching his debit card and ready to run errands to fix whatever it was had made me sit cross-legged in the middle of the lounge sobbing and snotting all over the place.
Some of my past favourites include:

• My Merry Un-Birthday: an 'Alice in Wonderland' party with playing-card banners, a giant 'EAT ME' cake, cucumber sandwiches, goblets with 'drink me' tags, red painted roses and a bin-liner 'rabbithole' all the guests had to climb through on the way into my house. I went for a casual Queen of Hearts-type outfit, and made a red t-shirt with pink hearts glued all over it, a tiara and heart print heels. Later in the evening, one of my guests came bursting into the room screaming 'SILLY STRING!!!!' and proceeded to spray a full can of heavy-duty fabric glue spray directly into my hair. It took two days to comb out.
• One Night in Tokyo: a Japanese pop-culture affair with a range of random treats from the asian supermarket, sushi, sake and Hello Kitty cupcakes. I was chuffed with the effort everyone went to; we had a Japanese tourist, a Powerpuff Girl, GoGo Yubari (from Kill Bill, complete with a spiky mace) Fook-Mi (from Austin Powers), an 'origami expert', several ninjas, geishas and harajuku lovers, and my particular favourites: The Not-So-Newlyweds who arrived in matching inflatable sumo suits, and one of my besties, who turned up wearing a painted chef's hat and a top with tiny plastic people sewn onto the shoulders. That's right, she came as Hiroshima. Fabulous.
• My Beardy B'day: the entire group of 20+ braved the knee-deep snow and hit up a local shisha lounge wearing a variety of fake beards. Mine was a white Gandalf-type affair with pretty purple flowers sewn into it to make it special. Bless.
• Requiem: my leaving party for Edinburgh. The idea was that it was a faux-funeral for 'my life in Belfast', with blown up portraits of me up everywhere, lots of lit candles, a slideshow of photos up on the projector screen; a classic wake buffet with lace doilies, triangle sandwiches and sausage rolls, and a highly potent Long Island Iced Tea in a tea urn with paper cups. All guests arrives in full funeral gear (black suits for the boys, lots of black lace for the girls). I have to say, this was an interesting experience for me; I think I successfully freaked myself out. At one point Smoky and I were in the livingroom, watching the slideshow of photos and listening to 'Dust in the Wind', when it suddenly dawned on me just how morbid this theme was and how it perhaps was not the best idea for a party I'd ever had. But then again, any party in which the hostess has to question as to whether or not she has actually died, sounds pretty successful to me.

I hope I never get too boring for theme parties; they are great fun, and a way to tap into being a 5-year old again, for one blissful evening. People are so quick these days to dismiss them; you can hear the collective groans and complaints every time there is a costume party on the cards. It's highly upsetting.

I am all too aware that the time bracket in which it is socially acceptable to shoehorn your guests into fancy dress is getting smaller by the year; suddenly it seems to be the vogue amongst my friends to have a proper job, a hubby, a couple of sprogs and a mortgage. Apparently when you have one or more of these you have become 'sensible' and are no longer required to stoop to such childish levels; well, I'm afraid that just won't do. I will be keeping a close eye on these nouveau-adults and attempting to normalise them with glitter and novelty cakes as soon as it becomes necessary.

Snow!!!!

Isn't it lovely! I bloody love the snow, it makes everything look like a Christmas card.

When I moved here and was packing away all my belongings in my new bedroom, my flatmate noticed a very large, very puffy black coat with a very furry hood hung up in my wardrobe. "You're going to need that for an Edinburgh winter" she commented, and since that moment I have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the spectacular winter I had been promised.

And this week, it arrived. With a vengeance.

Uni has been been cancelled all week, the campus being "closed until further notice": four words which bring out the 7-year old in any adult. I spent three days in my flat watching people make igloos and frolic in the lovely snow, giddy with the novelty of snowman-making, while I was quietly smug with my steaming mugs of tea and cosy livingroom. Then suddenly, reality struck; I had run out of food. So off I toddled to Tesco, wrapped up in several scarves and two pairs of socks with some 'sensible' footwear (well, as sensible as I would allow; my eyes skimmed past the flat boots and trainers, and settled on a pair of knee-high brown leather boots. They did have a heel but they were from Clarks, so a 'sensible' heel lol).

Dear lord, I had underestimated God's sense of humour. There were snowdrifts along the edge of the street which were waist-high, the path was easily half a metre higher than usual from all the compacted snow, and I genuinely couldn't tell where the footpaths ended and the roads began. And this was in the city! Of course, my first natural reaction was not to run screaming back into the safety of my flat, but instead to scrabble for my phone and make several phone calls home to brag about the glorious weather conditions. Understandably, my lovely friends and family were exceedingly jealous with their measly 2 inches of snowfall. And especially for them, here are a little video of the view from my living-room window, just to rub more snow salt in their wounds.

Fabulous. I'm off to make a hot whisky and watch Elf, happy snowballing (or not)!

There's no place like home

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto."

My Big Move has gone rather swimmingly so far. My flat is dinky but very cute, and I have a lovely flatmate who shares my love for carbohydrates and special-offer wine. The city is beautiful, especially now winter is properly kicking in, and every time I walk out my front door I see something else new that makes me smile. And my masters degree course, my raison d'etre (!) has so far proven to be highly enjoyable, with the unexpected bonus of being in a group of genuinely nice, fun people.

The only blip is my failure in finding employment; apparently, my 10+ years of various part-time jobs aren't up to high standards this city expects from potential employees. Having applied for countless positions in all areas of employment, I have so far had only one interview, and didn't get the position due to my inflexibility to working Christmas Eve and Boxing Day. When 'home' is in a different country, it's not so easy to work these festive shifts if you want to have anything resembling a Christmas...

Being unemployed sucks, but I have come to realise that it's not the lack of vodka money that bothers me the most. It's the unsettling feeling of 'not belonging here'; if I'm not working, it's like I'm not really part of the city, the daily grind, the bustle, the hundreds of faces you see every day in cafes, supermarkets, Topshop, driving the buses I ride home from uni. And because I'm not contributing, not doing my fair share of the slog, I don't really feel like I'm properly one of 'them'. But I don't live in the same country as my family and friends anymore, so I'm not really one of 'them', either. When I'm home, everyone's on their best behaviour; the nights out with my friends don't have the same carefree, go-with-the-flow essence that I always loved so much, largely due to the fact that these nights out require regimented planning to ensure everyone's schedules are cleared. I am in a no man's land, stuck somewhere in the middle of the Belfast-Stranraer ferry line, not quite at home but not quite Scottish yet either.

But I have two options: I can either choose to wallow in a sea of self-pity, moaning about being lonely and broke and just being a general misery. Or I can suck it up, realise how very lucky I am to have this opportunity; to have the fantastic family I have with their never-ending support, my lovely mum who (god love her) always lets me whinge and moan and then finds a way to cheer me up, usually by letting me talk to the dog down the phone. Or my dad, who's main concern is making sure I always have a few quid to buy medicinal wine, heaven forbid I don't drink my feelings, I am beginning to suspect the shame of being Northern Irish and having a sober daughter would be too much. Thankfully, there is no danger of that happening anytime soon.

Procrastinate: "to postpone or delay needlessly"

I have very recently relocated to a sparkly new city to start a masters degree. Unless you're a personal friend of mine, don't feel bad for not knowing this before now; nobody expects you to.

Unless of course you are a stalker or have an inexplicable psychic link with me. But I would be highly surprised if either of those options were the case; I'm not anywhere near interesting enough to merit a stalker, and the likelihood of someone having a psychic connection with a person they had never met is minimal. Wouldn't that be utterly pointless though...

"Someone, somewhere, just thought about eating a crumpet."

As supernatural powers go, it's a pretty rubbish one.

Anyhoo, I am only a few weeks into the course, and so far have found it very difficult to focus on the various tasks I'm issued with on a weekly basis. For example, right now I should be frantically working on a presentation that is due tomorrow, yet here I am, writing an entry about how I should really be focusing more on my work.

I have just spent more time working out the logistics of an anonymous psychic connection than I have on any of my homework due in tomorrow morning, and I can only get into one side of my bed due to the large quantity of various cosmetics, scarves and clothing that has been awaiting put-away for days now. Why, oh why do I do this to myself?

I'll share a secret with you. I procrastinate because it's fun.

Any activity I partake in is twice as rewarding when I'm really meant to be doing something else much less interesting.
Add this to the delicious anticipation of the adrenaline that hits when I subsequently run out of time to complete said task.
And nothing quite beats the imaginary pat on the back I give myself when I manage to pull something out of the bag at the last minute, ah the sweet smugness of the 'skin-of-your-teeth' victory.

Procrastination rules. Just remember that next time someone chastises you for your 'poor time management', chances are they're just jealous they didn't think of it first.

Hello.

So here we are.

I'm not going to lie to you; I don't have a bloody clue what I'm doing.

Being a somewhat impulsive person, I tend to have eureka moments on a weekly basis. This week, I have decided that the next obvious stage to my personal development should be based upon the launching of a blog. As much as I would like to be able to provide some kind of rational explaination as to how I reached this decision, I cannot; I find I am a generally happier person if I don't question my own choices too much. This is largely due to an unsettling gut instinct that with too much probing, I will unwittingly unleash some dark Pandora's box-type evil upon the world. So if we just go with it, everyone's happy. Trust me, I know about these things.

I have always had mixed emotions as to the whole 'blog' thing. Part of me is quietly impressed at the level of commitment and dedication that many bloggers put towards their venture. However, I am more swayed by the desire to inwardly snigger to myself at the sheer egotism of the practice; blogs seem so self-indulgent, don't they? Yes, of course they are. That's why I WANT ONE.

So give me a chance; check in from time to time. Perhaps with a Twix and a lukewarm glass of supermarket red. A recent survey showed that 8 out of 10 cats actually preferred the taste of my Musings when compared to their regular catfood, so I'm fairly confident you won't regret it. And if not, they come with a full money-back guarantee.

Maybe.