No, not the ice cream. Scroll down, bit further, bit further, just a little bit further.
Aha, yep. Right there.

That’s all.



That I really like strawberry ice cream. Quality strawberry ice-cream, not that dog-penis-pink stuff.

This is quite a breakthrough as normally eating ice cream renders me bulimic by reflex not choice.

Pelvic congestion

It is official. Apparently I have ‘a lot of pelvic congestion’.

What a legacy.

The incubus has decided to burrow into my pelvis. The upshot of this is that I need to wee every hour, and every hour its about a teaspoon of relief. It also means that doing a poo requires the focus and mis-guided focus you apply to trying to squeeze icing out of a small hole you’ve cut in a bag to make all manner of amazing kids birthday cakes. I imagine my fecal matter feels about the same as that poor icing does. It also means. . .

Vulval varicose veins.

I believe I’m setting a new standard for this blog.


Last Friday night as we farewelled the beautiful Bob & Linda, another very dear friend – Lara – and I sat discussing what we wanted from life.

Both of us want to be famous.

The first time I told AB this – when he asked what I wanted to be in my life – he replied, ‘that’s so conceited’.

I am not kidding.

Seriously, everyone prior to that had just indulged my delusions of fame (and obviously associated wealth) and he was the first to make me question whether it was a noble gesture or not.

So you can imagine my relief on Friday night to find a friend of more than a decade has the same lofty ambitions. She of course writes for a national broadsheet so is in a much better position of achieving The Goal, but still, it was reassuring all the same.

Then we realised, it was not so much the concept of being famous, as in recognisable on the street, but of being ‘known’.

Today, I appeared in a full colour photo with Oscar in the Daily Telegraph that claims to have a million readers a day. The pic ran two thirds of the page’s length and the same of its width. The article was about Oscar and our need to raise almost $100,000 for the most important and remarkable service for special needs kids and their families. I’m – for once – not exaggerating to say the story filled two thirds of a right hand page.

Apart from a few factual errors that came about because Oscar was present for the interview and kept interrupting us, it is a really good story.

So I’m wondering why I feel so weird about it? That my thigh looks like a leg of mutton? That I don’t have a chin? That there are errors of fact? Or that I’m just unsatisfiable? As I’m now making words up, I figure its probably time for bed.

One Hundred

Wow. I think I should write something profound, but all I can think about is how we let number 69 slip by without a snigger.

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