I just wouldn’t…

No, really.

I wouldn’t be the vaguely revolting blogger I seem to be if I did not duly release a Tale of Poo on the unsuspecting Internet once in a while, completely unbidden.

I just wouldn’t.

I do so hope that you all know what you’re in for, now that suitable warning has been issued, and the more delicate constitutions and/or current eaters (most especially of unfortunately brown items as chocolate) can cease and desist.

As an added bonus, I can inform you that this particular Poo Story involves Saag, Naan, another baby and an adult.

You could say it got about a bit.

Let me explain.

To put it another way, let me explain what I have now learned about changing the (as hinted at heavily above, um, log-filled) nappy of another infant in the presence of Saag and Naan.

Don’t.

At least don’t do it at ground height, lest you wish to become witness to Saag reaching in and helping herself by grabbing the fun brown toy right out of said nappy. Then running off waving the blasted thing in triumph. Very closely followed by a squawking Naan, hell bent of having her piece of the action, too.

Insert brief tussle between the protagonists and a change of fecal custody, followed by five horrified adults getting it together enough to howl a belated chorus of ‘nOOO…Ohshshshisthhhit…ohNOOOOOOO’ as the mother of the poo-grower concerned reflexively snatches it out of Naan’s victorious grasp without really thinking matter through all that thoroughly.

Then you can watch the expression on the poo-wrangler’s face change to sheer horror as she looks down at the contents of her own fist and back up at the rest of the room. Slow realisation dawns.

By the time the poo-whisperer is up to the point of screaming for help because her hand is literally full of shit, everybody else is completely useless in the assistance department, having gone strangely red-faced, tear streaked and being fully occupied choking back howls of laughter.

I must say that I found apologising for my children making off with a turd one of the strangest apologies of my parenting life to date. I don’t think the laughter made me very convincing.

If it helps any, I cleaned Saag and Naan’s grabby paws very thoroughly afterwards.

More things that annoy me.

Ack, I hate spring. 

Rebirth? Not so much. Joyous beginning anew? Nope. Same whatsit, different bucket Chez MII. Gazelle-like leaping about fields? See below. Fertility? Please don’t make me laugh.

I’m typing this missive with a visual field more commonly associated with the ‘before’ picture in blepheroplasty advertisements for bloodhounds.

Additionally, everything on  my beleagured anatomy that isn’t red itches anyway and therefore soon enough will be. When I get around to scratching the buggery out of it.

In other words, my eyelids are (interestingly if it’s not YOU itching like mad) hive covered and swollen. To the kind of fun dimensions used as cautionary photographs in hair-dye packets for those optimistic unsuccessful attempts they make to convince punters to allergy test before gleefully coating the scalp in dye.

On the plus side, it’s hard to have wrinkles when your eyes are swollen shut. On the minus side, however, they’re practically REALLY swollen shut. To the point that my racial origin is difficult to determine. I have to work tomorrow.

Pollen can just suck my proverbial.

Wait.

That didn’t precisely go as planned.

In an attempt to avoid a spate of comments pointing out the obvious, let me try again. Since I don’t actually have a ‘proverbial’ to suck, then pollen can kiss my ASS.

Before my morning shower and AFTER my morning something else.

That is all.

(Zyr.tec. Stat.)

Sometimes I despair.

Otherwise known as yet another random anecdote or two from the Giant Mental Filing Cabinet of Stupid Things I Keep Inside my Head.

I’ve got plenty more from whence this one comes, too. One day at the rate I am going I shall have to alphabetise the blasted thing.

Regardless, let me recount some recent verbal output Saag and Naan have effortlessly managed to extract from the mouths of others. You know, since they’re currently (touch wood, touch wood, I hear no protests as yet….heck, jump up and down and have a party) napping. For the second time today.

The first stretch was two hours, but you think I would have learned my lesson about bragging by now. Besides, lest I forget, Naan did a giant, liquid (but oddly odourless)  poo in the middle of the night. She, oddly enough for a child who is mostly content to lie in her own waste, screamed like a banshee with buttocks pasted in battery acid until her stupid maternal unit thought to inspect her nappy. Only to discover the poor kid’s  buttocks that did look rather like the aforementioned acid etched variety.

Oh.

In my defence, it was 2am, a time at which I am not precisely my fastest mentally, and the jet-engine shrieking was rather off-putting.

So.

Recently-ish, Saag, Naan and myself as the transporting parental unit went to a children’s party. Fascinating thus far, I know. Do humour me as I add a little background, without which the punchline may fall a little flat.

When we go to such events I generally pre-emptively dress the Indian Takeaways in the same outfit, albeit with a minor tweak or two between spawn. This is so that I can airily wave my arm to those who keep on insisting they cannot possibly tell a small blonde and a giant brunette apart and mutter something about Saag being the one in silver shoes. You know, as I drink wine, or at least wish there was wine.

I do this because I figure that it should fulfil the unwritten Second Law Of Twin Identification (the first law is that two children must belong to one woman and look the same age), i.e. Thou Shall Not Dress Your Spawn Matching Unless They Are Twins.

It’s a heavy hint.

It also means that if I need to rapidly locate my flock, I only have to remember one outfit, and my memory is not all that flash these days.

Anyway.

I usually also dress them to within an inch of their life in pink, on the basis that this is the almost universal code for owning a vag.ina and being a girl.

This way, most of the inevitable ’Are they twins?’ and the erroneously chirpy  ’A boy and a girl, how lovely!’ is avoided.

On this occasion, I even went one step further and dressed them in a particularly well loved shirt. Shrts that, ever to the point, read ‘I Am Not A Boy’. Written on a pink background smack bang across the middle of the chest.

You can imagine my confused look when almost the very first thing that happened after I unleashed Saag and Naan was that somebody walked up to Naan, looked down jovially at the pink jean clad self-proclaimed ’I am NOT a boy’, patted her on the head and uttered the following immortal words:

‘Why, HELLO young man! Is that your older sister over there?’

Sometimes I despair.

I had another story about a comment in the park that Naan could not possibly be the same age as Saag because she is, and I quote, ‘tiiiiiiiny!’, but I really cannot be bothered anymore.

You get the idea. At least there was champagne.

The Antipodean Invasion.

Also known as ‘The blog entry in which I give the game away’.

In other words, should you happen to live in a certain country that likes to hang out on the northern side of the equator, well, expect your population to shortly temporarily increase by about four people, two of whom are admittedly a little on the short side.

The logistics of the planned shenanigans avec twins on several long-haul-tin-can-with-wings-on jaunts has had my overly list-dependant self in a busy world of planning check-box heaven, much to the detriment of this website.

Are strollers included in baggage allowance (Very Bad, since ours weighs about a metric ton, give or take), or extra (super awesome)? Do airlines let enterprising parents take litres of shelf stable milk on board with which to placate spawn and stop their ears exploding at takeoff and landing? What do you do with two one year olds on a plane for fourteen solid hours after the fiftieth repetition of ‘Mary had a little lamb’, anyway? Why do American street numbers start in the thousands for a perfectly normal sized street (answered, just because they do)? How terrifying might it actually be to be a passenger in a car that Geohde absent-mindedly keeps trying to drive on the wrong side of the road? Do alligators really eat people, or just snack on unguarded limbs?

The questions are legion.

DId I mention that Chez MII is going mobile, and we’ve just been on the almost-phone-with-extra-dropouts that is Skype to the wonderful HereWeAreAJen planning details?

As for Jen, she is as lovely as she types, although possibly with a bit more accent.

I expect that she thinks the same of me, and that additionally I am Very Red at the moment. Most Loudly Red. I shall, however, go ahead and assume that she is probably much less pixellated in real life.

In conclusion, Holiday! Jen!  Whee.

Thank you, Jen, you absolutely rule and now I must attempt to conquer Mt Washing before Saag and Naan (who waved dutifully at the computer screen when prompted and even blew kisses before a thankfully kept off camera defcon-10 naptime meltdown) re-emerge from their cots in search of lunch.

Ooh, I’m excited.

Agony Aunt, Edition 19.

Otherwise known as the ‘where has the time gone?’ edition. Nineteen already? It seems like only a couple of years ago that  a much younger Agony Aunt still had that pesky nappy-requiring double incontinence problem. It wasn’t ALL verbal diarrhoea back in the day.

Regardless, the nineteenth spin around it is. Bring on the Googlers. My snotty nose and cranky mood is more than up to the task.

….and so it begins again. I decide that I cannot let Goog.le proclaim me the font of all knowledge with regard to ‘huge t.its’ and the overly optimistic like without planning the Early Sag and Backache lecture, right there and then.

As always, click on the button for previous editions of my snark advice to the frequently illiterate. Or click on the Bad Google tab at the top to see a more comprehensive list of what can only be described as Really Dumb Stuff.

Ahem:

• beautiful girl with huge t.its.
• not that shit again.
• suppository rectal movie.
• lost scrotum photos.
• photos of vag.ina been shagged.
• dull back ache black tarry poo bloated.
• which hole shall penis can lead to pregnancy?

Item #1 (beautiful girl with huge t.its):

As a card-carrying member of the IBTC*, I stand firm in my fried-egg position that they’re over-rated, anyway.

Also, see above remarks with regards to the National Geographic Phenomenon and the like. I thought that might put you off of your stroke a bit. I know how to Talk The Dirty, oh yes I do.

Besides, sweetheart, if it’s boobs that float your proverbial boat, do you really need a pretty face too?

Perhaps I’m just jealous. Now, bugger off, okay?

Item # 2 (not that shit again):

Yes, it IS that shit again. What more is there to say? Drink less beer and eat less curry and you won’t be so troubled in the mornings.

Item # 3 (suppository rectal movie):

Okay, Googler, apart from the fact that I now feel an overwhelming urge to bathe as this query is even kinkier than an experienced reader of The Misdirected Kink is accustomed to reading, well.

Apart from that, um.

Why?

Item # 4 (lost scrotum photos):

Lamp-posts and milk cartons everywhere now hold new horrors for the unwary.

Item # 5 (photos of vag.ina been shagged):

I am going to take a flying leap of intuition and assume this is a mildly humorous search for po.rn. Again.

Here’s the thing, oh Google-y one, I admire your single-minded specificity in what gives you the maximal amount of jolly factor, really I do. But. If you are grammatically challenged, stick to typing ‘po.rn’ or ‘s.ex’ in the search box. Both are tried and true favourites.

PS. You meant ‘being’ back up there, I think. If you didn’t, I don’t want to follow that line of past-tense horizontal folk dancing enquiry any further at ALL.

Item #6 (dull back ache black tarry poo bloated):

I’m sorry to hear that, but it probably shan’t be lethal.

Speak to item #2, will you?

Item #7 (which hole shall penis can lead to pregnancy?):

Easy.

Without going overly dull and anatomical, I’ll give you a clue. It’s not the mouth and it’s also not the Bottom. In most women, that leaves only one real option.

Now, what do you plan to DO with that information?

G

PS. It’s been a disturbingly slack while, are there any lurkers or new bloggers out there potentially interested in a little blogroll addition, or being BOTW? Don’t all rush at once, now.

*Itty Bitty T-rhymes-predictably Committee.

New things that annoy me.

Actually, they simply skip merrily over point ‘annoy’ and downright piss me right off.

In other words, I was at work today running around a mostly unfamiliar hospital like a slightly useless blue bottomed fly trying to do my level best to decrease the general illness quotient floating around. Please note that this was in the face of some impressively determined effort on the parts of the patients to really, really, screw up their health, usable veins, pawn-able items, pinch the Un Fun drugs off the resus trolley, and nick off with half the clean linen as well.

If you’re going to pinch something, people, try the morphine. Adrenaline probably isn’t quite the buzz you’re looking for.

Regardless.

If I get one more flipping bleep-and-run page asking me to ‘review the patient in bed 5A’ without the helpful addition of the following items as a minimum, namely:  the bleeping ward, nurse name, extension number, patient NAME, diagnosis and the eternal optimistic query of why they need to be seen now (and not more happily, for me at least, tomorrow, when I am not working), well, I shall simply have to hunt down the cretin responsible and drown them in iodised salt.

Or possibly I may strangle them with my voluminous handover sheet while calmly repeating the mantra ‘ESP is Not Scientifically Validated as a Means of Communication’.

That is all. I’m not even asking anybody to say ‘please’, or ‘thank you’ for that matter.

It’s been a very long day of investigating multiple 5A false alarms.

Well, I never.

If I did bore all and sundry to tears yesterday with what I now concede is an extremely long winded and rather uninspiring account of how I posted a letter without stamping it first (see I did it in ONE sentence, I can be to the point, sometimes), then I guess today’s brief missive may fail similarly to hit the mark.

Not one hour ago I received a rather amusingly confused phone call while in my personal trolley-pushing nirvana, the supermarket (‘Ooooh! Three for the price of TWO!’). It was a phone call from a bemused individual in slightly baffled possession of what appear to be on the surface of things two identical time sheets.

She took great delight in asking if I had intended to send two time sheets for the last fortnight, or whether I did it just to check they were paying attention?

I did briefly quip that I had rather hoped I would be paid twice this way, because being terminally vague gets expensive on the household budget what with all those nasty late fees all the time, but then confessed that one of the sheets arrived sans stamp. The postal gods apparently took mercy on the frazzled soul of yours truly and delivered it for free.

Well, not quite for free. Unpaid postage is delivered at cost to the recipient it would seem.

Fortunately it’s only local post and therefore cheap.

The next time I forget to stamp something, I should think bigger, though. I now plan to return every single unwanted local newspaper foisted upon my poor letterbox since I have moved to this address to the companies concerned. Unstamped, obviously.

More like a colander.

I would like to think I have a mind like a steel trap. Sharp, fast and never EVER prone to letting small details slip.

The kind of mind that can recall the dose of warfarin that every single patient on it on my ward (a percentage that varies with the particular Unit of Malady I am working for at that point in time, ranging from ‘what’s warfarin?’ to ‘everybody and their dog’), remember their last three INR’s and adjust the therapeutic rat poison dosage appropriately. Before being paged fifty times about it.

Not that doing so in any way stops the inevitable pages by several somebodies guilty of not actually reading the drug chart lately, but you know. It’s still much nicer to be able to be righteously irritated at having your valuable! damnit! time wasted, rather than feeling like a naughty child who hasn’t done their homework that day being asked to explain by Teacher.

I prefer having a grasp of things before they have a grasp of me. Especially if it’s the short and curly hairs.

To put it another way, I take pride in getting the little details right, even if nobody notices. No matter what your turn in trade, people only notice your screw ups and not the things that first graders get gold stars for.

For a different example, when not gainfully running around a hospital clutching papers like a blue arsed fly, I like having the kind of mind that remembers when bin night is without prompting and never fails to put them out in the right order on the right weeks. I like being able to go grocery shopping and only acquire a trolley full of relevent items we need (chocolate is extremely relevent, even if we already have some). Sans list, although making lists is yet another thing I dorkishly adore doing.

Nothing fills my heart with greater joy than a neat list with happy little boxes next to every single item, all ticked ‘done’. It makes me feel like I’ve really achieved something that day.

Don’t snicker.

Anyway, for the longest sleep deprived time after Saag and Naan made their protesting way into the world, right out of the lower half of my surgically unzipped abdomen this all went to hell in a handbasket.

I was lucky if I could get the day of the week right, and pure necessity forced my red-eyed self to engage in the most insane list making known to obsessional-compulsive mankind. I had lists, and then lists of lists. I had lists for my purse, for in the car, for by the bed and so on. Reminding me to shower, wash clothes, change underwear, attend appointments et cetera.

I have a sinking suspicion I murdered half a rainforest in my desperate attempt to keep the wheels of Twin Central churning, but it worked surprisingly well as long as I didn’t lose my list(s). Losing a list prompted some rather impressive headless chicken impersonations, digging though the house in a futile attempt at recovering the irretrievably lost, followed by a predictable crying jag. In case you’re wondering.

Then, as Saag and Naan became rather more gracious with regards to the general concept of nocturnal shut-eye, I improved. The lists got fewer and limited to a few items only. In one diary.

I’ve remained at this happy box-ticking medium for some time now, but after yesterday’s efforts, I’m rather concerned that I am experiencing a sneak preview of dementia. Perhaps I should up the list ante to include such items as ‘Put stamps on envelopes before attempting to send through the postal system’ and ‘Do not queue hopefully at the closed register for five minutes before working out the cause of the hold-up’. Also ‘If I really MUST stand around waiting for divine intervention to step in and scan my goods, don’t load them all on they conveyor belt first’.

Just in case. Because you feel like an utter ass as everybody watches you restock your trolley and sidle ten feet horizontally to the open register. As for the envelope, well.

I’ve just got back from posting a replacement. Yes, avec stamp this time.

Clearing something up.

 

….in case my last post caused any confusion, or there is lingering doubt about the number of tenants in Hotel Uterus.

To put it another way, I could say I was pregnant, as long as I immediately followed that statement with ‘Ha! Opposite day!’. We all know I’m far too mature to do something of that nature.

I don’t like being pregnant.

There, I said it.

I do not like being pregnant. Gravid. With child. Gestating. Incubating. I do not feel all warm and fuzzy when my proverbial oven is cooking buns, and I can think of about a million things that are more physically pleasurable than the elegant condition known so charmingly as being ‘knocked up’.

I. Do. Not. Like. Being. Pregnant.

Please don’t hate me. I know it is not in the best of taste for an infertile woman who has hit the baby jackpot to admit it, but I just don’t get off on being the approximate dimensions of a planetary satellite. I like to be able to turn over in bed at night, unassisted. Heck, I like to sleep on my stomach. Apart from the superficial physical aspects, being pregnant mainly makes me feel alternately terrified my babies have died while I wasn’t looking, or simply inescapably enormously fat.

I am a traitor. I do not ‘glow’, I ooze sebum and I collect backne. I sweat like a pig-wrangler on a busy day. My nose develops a non-disguisable (by even the most enthusiastic hairstylist) collection of pimples. I snore. Loudly.

Even in the first trimester, when the whole shebang is physically easy for a non-porcelain phone conversating type, I do not like it. I am crippled by horrifying anxiety. I have weekly scans, because magical thinking tells me my baby shall die if I do not peek as often as possible. I own a doppler and spend literally hours finding a heartbeat at  early gestations. I cry if I am not successful.

I do not like being pregnant.

My grooming suffers in exponential concordance with my expanding girth. I stop brushing my hair. I gain forests in areas that are normally heavily logged. I wear items more conventionally recognisable as tents, as apparel, and in public.

I do not lovingly stroke my belly as I sit, but wince as a contraction reminds me that bending in the middle is yet another item ranked rather highly on my personal uterine verboten list. Unmedicated with contraction stopping Fun Drugs, I go to the toilet about fifty times an hour, more than half convinced I shall prolapse an infant whilst sitting on the can because the pressure in my pelvis dictates that not even a millimetre of urine and a baby can coexist peacefully. Medicated with drugs that should drop my blood pressure, I become horribly hypertensive anyway and I swell until I am cursed with Fat Fingers to go with my Fat Arse.

I am hungry all day long and additionally at 10pm, midnight, 2am, 4am and 6am, but the insane reflux means that I have to choose between enjoying a second, more acidic, version of each meal or spitting partly digested food and stomach acid into the bathroom sink. Sometimes a bucket, because I cannot walk beyond a waddle.

I get ravenous appetite derived stretchmarks on my ass, and when the blasted thing duly shrinks post partum, I am left with cheeks that could hold pencils up. Hands free. But that’s okay, because so can my stomach. Also, my bowels can really hang out, thanks to the wonders of a diastasis recti. I do not like what being pregnant does to my body. The first time I saw myself post partum, I almost cried. My stretchmarks and muffin top bother me, they fail to fill me with warmth that I mostly successfully (2/3 of efforts to date) grew human beings.

I do not like being pregnant.

There.

Now that I have said it, I can feel simultaneously heavily relieved to have gotten that small confession off my chest and mildly terrified that the heavens shall open up and the rain of judgement shall pour forth heavily upon my ungrateful head. I love my children, but I do not like being pregnant. That is all.

A Wry

Dear Internet,

Do please forgive me, for I must confess that the story I was planning to spin about my cat eating all my recent blog entries just before I could victoriously press the ‘Publish’ button might actually possibly be a lie.

In a small aside, bashing ‘Publish!’ is an act that always gives me positively enormous amounts of virtuous satisfaction. Even more than surveying the appearance of my house after a long-put-off vacuuming or being entirely caught up on washing. Goodness knows why raising the general quotient of written mediocrity available on the entire planet by an oh-so-small amount pleases me so, but it would seem that I love inflicting yet more mindless dribble on you all, well at least I do right up until that distressing point where I inevitably spot the plethora of typos and spelling errors, three days later. Then I cringe in shame at being so very poor at proof reading and try to restrain myself from going back and fixing it.

Regardless. The cat ate my blog, really it did. All that wit has VANISHED and I am inconsolable. Ahem.

Oddly enough, the general paucity of, you know, minor items like content worth discussing, or new stories of personal humiliation to recount (just so I can re-live the experience TWICE and hopefully in doing so learn not to do something so very daft the next time. This is an approach that never ever works, in case you wondered) usually fails to stop me unleashing some form of verbal diarrhoea or other on second daily basis.

Daily, if somebody really pisses me off.

Actually, it’s not odd at all. I blame the Takeaways.

Over the period of ages ranging from ten to thirteen months, they have decidied that daytime sleeping is increasingly for losers, and shall (loudly if I push my luck and have an optimistic crack at Horizontal Cot Time, regardless) not be dissuaded from that point of view. The price of developmental progress appears to be the shedding of my favourite two naps per day, leaving me with a blue-bottomed fly single precious nap-time in which to A: Bathe, B: Win a small but critical battle in the endless War on Household Entropy, C: Eat, D: Prepare food for the Twin Army.

The little buggers not only march on their stomachs, they march on the intended contents of everybody else’s as well. I’ve been vaguely mortified by my spawn Seagull-ing and sometimes outright snatching the supplies of other people in public more times than I can count lately.

When an utter stranger looks at your children pityingly and gives a clamoring Naan half of their sandwich, you know their finger is about a millimetre off of speed dialing Child Services. I’ve given up pre-emptively explaining that they are simply utter scabs who have learned all about soft targets, and I think I may simply move on to installing a ‘Do Not Feed The Children, No Not Even If You Think I Am a Bad Parent’ sign on the pram.

It doesn’t help that Naan’s legs do bear a disturbing resemblence to pipe-cleaners. Honestly, I really have no idea how the child manages to use them to walk successfully, let alone balance approximately fifty percent of her body mass not-so-far above them in her head like she does.

Regardless.

The other reason my contributions have been less frequent than is my wont of late is because I find it rather disconcerting to read the screen at a 45 degree angle.

No, I’m not experimenting with some kind of new-age PC balancing device, I have a wry neck and I’m rather over looking at the world crooked and with a Zoolander-esque inability to turn in one direction. Left is fine, in case you wondered, I can talk to people on my left all day, no problem.

Stand on my right however, and shall either wince mightily if I forget my afflicted state and attempt to turn, or sigh heavily at the cruelness of fate and stomp manually around until I can bring you into my field of vision.

So, perhaps next time when I am All Better, if you can restrain your excitement for that long (or at least until I can legally acquire some valium and relax this damn spasm), I shall tell you revoltingly boring stories about Naan’s cool new moves a.k.a The Kid Has Rhythm Despite Being Whiter Than A Vampire with Vitamin D Issues and Saag’s newfound love of handbags.

Seriously, Naan already dances better than her two-step shuffling father. Yes, LS agrees. He knows his limitations.

PS. This time the spellchecker really IS broken and I am not merely being carelessly lazy if there are any amusing misspellings remaining after my manual search-and-destroy mission. Additionally only the editing window marked ‘HTML’ seems to be working, and so the ultimate appearance of this entry with regards to formatting is an event that shall be as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. I shan’t know until I bash that ‘publish’ button.

The cat ate my blog?

Things that annoy me…

I hereby dedicate this post to the following things that annoy me the very most in the world. Well, at least as of today, at 7 pm, plus something minutes and something-else-divisible-by-60 seconds. Just so that tomorrow when I am at work and something annoys me more, I can rank it appropriately with regards to my feelings on having run unexpectedly out of chocolate because LS has eaten what I though was the last bar in my cleverly concealed secret stash.

Also, it is raining and too bloody cold to go out for more.

Pity me. I am a (insert discrete whisper that menstrual events may be happening) woman without chocolate. Thank goodness for wine.

1. People who treat nauseous and nauseated as synonyms and thus in one fell swoop tell the world that they make other people feel sick. Actually, they make me feel incredibly unwell in a grammar nerdish way, so perhaps they are not so very far from the truth, after all.

2. People who do not know that their vehicle posesses these clever things called ‘indicators’ that help other drivers bereft of ESP divine that they intend to possibly turn into the path of their innocent car. You know, so that the rest of us can save on the unexpected tyre wear, rear view mirror middle finger action overuse injury,  foot-to-brake-pedal reflex testing and general brown trousers wearing.

3. See above, but insert ‘accelerator pedal’ and ‘working eyes’ when the ass in front of you is blithely driving at half the signed speed limit in a zone marked No Overtaking.

4. Point 2, but with reference to ‘keeping within one’s OWN lane’ (because wanting more than one is considered greedy by most motoring authorities) and refraining from ’Honest-to-be-jeebers shaving on the go’, because whilst I like to make friends, I do not like to make them at the freeway speed-limit. Neither does the paintwork on my car. Besides, isn’t carefully crafted stubble considered sexy these days, rather than merely unkempt? After all, it is the approach I take with regards to my very own legs.

5. All the numerous sad, twisted searches that goog.le now proclaims me Ass Lady of The Internet with regards to, about thirty times a day. I swear a good proportion of my traffic is now about rec.tums. People, it is simple, so do listen up. Your bottom is solely designed to release chocolate hostages, back out a log or two a day, park a brown buick in the odd porcelain garage and so on. Really. There is no earthly need to get so very creative with regards to the Hershy Highway. Traffic is strictly southbound. Trust me on this one. Now bugger off somewhere else, please.

Yes, I mean figuratively with regards to that last point.

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